


Dragon Souls - Rekindled

by Leider_Hosen



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Fantastic Racism, Female Protagonist, Independant Whiterun, Lore-heavy, Multi, POV Multiple, Sex Positive, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-02-28 16:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 47,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13275051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leider_Hosen/pseuds/Leider_Hosen
Summary: When the Dragon Cult attempts to undo the actions of Gormlaith, Felldir, and Hakon using an Elder Scroll, timescars open across the land and planes of Oblivion far beyond Nirn draw worryingly close. Haggard and weary wanderers seek to escape their dead, ashen world through a rift over the Sea of Ghosts, and among the wretched is a feeble cursed hollow, doomed to die and without a past. However, time is convoluted and the Divine's reach is vast- perhaps she is more than she realized.





	1. Scars In Time

Eternities drifted past Alduin’s eyes like paper lanterns over a blackened lake.

He wasn’t fully awake; his mind was too numb to grasp the timelines that frayed and weaved before him, but he was not fully asleep either. His body swayed in some form of perpetual fall, though not even the World-Eater knew where he was falling to. The constant motion, and the sensation of infinite durations of time kept him restless.

Only Alduin’s sheer force of will was holding him together at this point. Indeed, he would have been torn apart and ceased to exist were he not a timeless dov spawned from Akatosh. Everything hurt, and to a being who couldn’t be moved by the mightiest mortal blade nor loudest thu’um, pain was something foreign. It rent him to the core.

It was an eternal reminder of that accursed perversion of the thu’um the vermin used against him, on his own sacred mountain. He should have learned from Miraak how great was the hubris and insolence of humanity; for an instant he allowed himself to let his guard down as he swooped in on the trespassing trio that challenged him, the World-Eater wondering what punishment he would mete out to avenge his lesser kin.

He saw them, with their dull and primitive weapons, their tiny voice, and their frail mortal bodies. Such a pitiful display against him, a god, who permitted them to live just so they could bask in his greatness and wisdom, whose whisper could utterly dismantle time’s effect on whatever he desired.

But, while he correctly deemed their power wanting, he underestimated their ability to drag the dov to their level. Their true weapon was the thu’um, as he expected, but he was not ready for the words they sung to him.

 _Joor_ . _Zah. Frul_ . They were sickening words. Alduin never paid them mind, and never spoke of them to his fellow dovah. He had no use for them, _they_ had no use for them, for such trifles were reserved for jul. And yet, thanks to jul’s whore of a goddess and Alduin’s traitor brother, they infused them into the dragon language.

When they struck him, he could feel the most incomprehensible sensations overtake him. He, who never felt pain, or fear, or hesitation. Who was free to roam the world across the skies, and never knew a height beyond his reach. Who was never sick, never felt the cold of winter, the heat of summer, who never felt Mundus pull at his feet.

All these things and more he experienced in that instant. He could feel it rending his very soul.

With the suddenness of being consumed by a flame, he could feel himself trying to catch his breath atop the high mountain. He could feel the icy grip of the brutal wind catching his wings and seeping through his scales. He fell from the air, the snow kicking up around his resting place. Alduin’s steady dov heart started beating so erratically he feared he would faint as he stood up. He could feel his tail dragging against the ground, his legs creaking to support his weight as he squinted at the warriors through the icy mist stinging his eyes. As they advanced, he found himself- Alduin, the World-Eater, ravager of Sovngarde and bringer of the end- recoiling. For the first time since Akatosh dreamt him into being, before the Throat of the World itself came to be, Alduin’s feet stumbled on the rocks as he tried to catch his footing.

The fear eclipsed everything else. The snow around his sinking feet slowed him down, Alduin’s legs feeling tired as he drug them through the drifts. The peak was too high and steep to surmount, his wings wouldn’t respond to his desperate pleas to carry him, so Alduin searched for a path through the uneven terrain.

Escape. He realized how badly he wanted to escape, then he realized why. The final revelation struck him harder than the rest, so much so Alduin feared his heart would stop beating in his chest.

He was afraid to die. They could cut away at him, spill his blood, strip the flesh from his bones. He could fall over in the snow and be overtaken with cold and exhaustion, and never rise again.

He was nothing. What was the point of existing if he would depart the world and lose everything?

He nearly missed the words of the shield-maiden as she charged forth with her mighty greatsword, “You feel fear for the first time, worm. I see it in your eyes!” she boasted, “Skyrim will be free!”

And he did fear. Then, in that moment of total despair, a part of him seethed with indignation. A human calling _him_ “worm”? He would have laughed at such a pathetic insult, as the gulf between jul and dov was as vast as the gulf between the sky and cosmos.

Alduin stared down on her with his fiery red eyes as he leaned up. He measured her hands to his massive paws, her sword to his claws. The World-Eater found a rebuttal to the terrible truth the jul implanted as his maw opened into a snarl, his tail and wings rising as a growl to shake the heavens poured from his steaming throat.

The Shield-Maiden stumbled as she tried to halt her reckless charge, and Alduin lashed out with ferocity unlike anything the world had seen. His roar shook the mountain as he abandoned all sense of death _and_ his composure as a dov, his senses flooding with an animalistic frenzy to survive.

Gormlaith, named by the voices calling to her, attempted to evade him but the wyrmlings she slew were nothing compared to the World-Eater. He was faster and stronger and mightier than any being, joor or otherwise, and he relished it as he caught her in his teeth. His ears were caressed by her dying screams as her blood flooded over his teeth, Alduin chomping through her, steel armor and all.

One of them shouted at Alduin, the icy breath stinging him, but the illusion of weakness was faded. The World-Eater was a cripple compared to his immortal state, but it would take more than simple cold to kill him as he spat out the mangled wreck of the once proud warrior woman. He found more appreciation for his strength than he ever had before as he charged at the man attempting to slow him with furious bloodlust.

“Felldir, use it!” he screamed, “ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ” The concussive force of the thu’um scattered the clouds around him and struck Alduin in the face, but that didn’t stop him from forcing his way through. The man barely evaded Alduin’s claws, but was too unsteady to evade again the World-Eater brought his other palm down, luxuriating in the sound of crushed bones and the feeling of blood and guts welling between his fingers, the snow around his palm turning crimson.

Alduin turned on the last, blinded by rage, when he spotted the unmistakable shape of an Elder Scroll hot with the effort of channeling its energies, "Faal Kel...?!"

“Begone, World-Eater!” the mortal shouted, bearing his final hope over his head,

“ _Nikriinne!_ ” Alduin screeched, plasma rising in his throat as he charged.

“By words with older bones than your own, we break your perch on this age and send you out!”

“ _Quo Ag’Kren!_ ” Alduin’s shout erupted as a dazzling tempest of cosmic light, the violet rays setting the mountain alight and causing the snow in its path to explode into steam. The man it struck was erased from existence, but alas, it was too late. Alduin felt the universe tear open around him, his spirit being pulled into the void. He fought against it, but the old man was right; he was helpless to resist something further beyond the age and power of Akatosh himself.

Alduin had no concept of how long ago that was. It could have been anywhere from a few hours to several thousand years. But, with every measure of his focus and energy, he kept the memory alive. He relived the moment of his greatest shame and failure endlessly, refusing to let it go. It was the burning shame, the pain wracking his body and soul, that kept his will to live kindled.

He knew the scar in time was still there, he could feel it. The foolish humans could throw him out, but the World-Eater was too deeply connected to Mundus to be severed from her entirely. He may have been trapped in his semi-mortal state, but he would still live more than long enough to find his way back.

Just then, Alduin sighted a massive rift. The World-Eater willed himself towards this glowing chasm in the blackness, falling exponentially faster into the blinding light until he was enveloped by paracausal power completely. After a few moments of blindness, Alduin was ejected from the formless vacuum, his vision spotty as he fell pray to gravity for the first time in millennia.

Alduin’s momentum carried him several paces from the time-scar before crashing into the snow and tumbling downhill, eventually rolling to a stop. As he lay there, Alduin’s lungs filled with fresh air and the scent of mountain evergreens and winter. The wind waked over his prone carcass as his eyes slid closed, drifts of snow migrating over him. He could not will his eyes to open again, and his limp body refused to move. After a few moments of struggling, Alduin found himself aloof to the idea of vulnerability, already feeling his strength returning. The World-Eater gave in to torpor, his breath finding a slow, deep rhythm as he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

The ocean heaved beneath a smoggy sky, the dusty clouds obscuring the last remnants of sunlight the world would ever see. Windswept dunes taller than the city crept towards the bay, the blasted heaps of rubble, sand, and ashes enclosing the harbor like hungry jaws. It seemed the grey, dead world wasn’t ready to fully end until everything was erased. Even the air betrayed life; it was sickly yellow, like viewing the world through a sheen of bile. Every breath assailed the lungs and throat with a vile, acrid mouthful of crushed rocks and flakes of glass kicked up with each gust of wind, making it nothing short of miraculous a thriving colony could exist here.

The basin of dunes made the port hard to find, and even harder to reach. The only reliable way in was a distinctly U-shaped trench dug into the eastern ridge. The winding pilgrim’s path beneath the mouth gave it a serpentine shape, a parade of pilgrims cresting the mouth and traipsing down the throat, until they were shat out at the base of the sheer cliff. Knights and noblemen were made equal as they wearily escorted their wagons, the carts piled with everything they saw fit to drag from home.

Their dress and skin was a schizophrenic collage of Astora and Carim, Lothric and Zena and Jugo, everywhere. They all converged on this barony, which only months ago had been nearly abandoned after the sands claimed the rest of the coastal kingdom. All because it had the good fortune of being the closest place to the great rift. Wriggling souls were traded back and forth over moldy counters piled with every ware imaginable, though fresh food and clean water was a luxury so lavish many settled for dredging scraps from the rubbish heap and used their precious souls to buy a sturdy sword and polished armor.

Residents hung their dirty laundry out the cracked windows, illuminated in their bedrooms by the daylight filtering in through the holes in the ceiling. The tenants and landlords argued over rent above the homeless lounging in the alley, the wandering people sipping aged beer and chewing hard foods they’d carried for the journey. Still more hoards spoke their native tongue excitedly as they patrolled the roads, staying close to deter the many skulking thieves and bandits

It was one of the most vibrant and noisy hives of civilization born in this wretched era, but the grandest display, along the oceanway before the city, was the shipyards. Everywhere, houses were being stripped to the foundation for wood, and petrified trees and scraps drug from the dunes were being sawn apart and beaten down with rusted hammers. Boats of every color and style were sitting at the piers, soldiers and builders standing side by side as they hauled the materials to their flanks and set to work getting the slipshod vessels seaworthy, driven by mad fervor to earn a place aboard them.

The moment a vessel was ready and loaded to the bridge with supplies, waiting crowds were filed on. The guards confiscated unimaginable treasures, but the pilgrims gave them gladly for a tightly-packed seat, their weary eyes filled with hope and joy.

Anne watched this from a dune to the south, far away from the pilgrim’s path. She’d approached the colony many times, always retreating of course, though each trip was more bold than the last. She came just long enough to take what she needed and refill her Estus, then she withdrew again, back to haunting the wastes. She figured it was only fitting a hag like her would behave like such a vulture.

Anne hung her head, staring at her emaciated arms resting on her almost skeletal legs. The thickest part of her was her bloated stomach, her leathery skin chapping each time she rocked in place. Her breath wheezed loudly from her dry mouth, the sparse hair that hadn’t peeled off her scalp roughly scratching her gaunt cheeks like straw. At least few would linger on her supremely ugly form, as her figure was so ravaged by exposure one couldn’t tell she was a woman once.

She’d shed tears, if only to wash away the sand biting her eyes, but after succumbing to starvation, dehydration, undead hunters, and even greater horrors, her eyes remained permanently dry.

 _Why am I still alive?_ Anne asked herself. _How was I fortunate enough to hear of the scar in time? How did I die so many times and not hollow? How did I find the strength to carry myself so far? How did I learn to defend myself with such a weak body?_

After a point she couldn’t remember anything to give her answers. Maybe she didn’t _want_ to remember, because everything she remembered brought her despair. All she remembered was being a little girl, barely an adolescent. Dying to something, she couldn’t remember, but she came back. When she did, she was driven away.

Ever since then, she wandered. She wandered for decades, died countless times, scavenging and fighting and clawing her way across the land, not knowing why. At this point, it was just one foot in front of the other, just surviving to the next day, and holding onto anything resembling a shred of individuality.

 _Hope_. The word carried warmth in her. She was ready to give up, but the chance of a new beginning, a new world, it gave her hope. She didn’t know what lay beyond the ocean, but it couldn’t be worse than this.

She patiently watched the sky darken as the hours wore on. When everything settled down, Anne decided now was the time to move. Anne’s tattered armor rustled as she stood, the undead hoping it would hold together for the trip. Everything she wore was scavenged, and even when she died and awoke to find it with fresh tears and blood, she kept it for lack of anything to replace it. She used a needle and a few spare threads to patch it together, though her cloth gambeson was threadbare and full of holes. The only thing in the way of sturdiness was an ancient iron breastplate, the rusty, dented plate the only thing between her bosom and everything that wanted to kill her again.

She patted the right leg of her simple trousers, checking to make sure her sword, Estus, and leather sacks full of supplies were still there, as there would be no chance to retrieve them later. She scaled her way down the rubble to the water’s edge, feeling the sand filling her boots through the broken soles. Anne resolved that the first thing she was picking up when she got to the new world was a fucking pair of proper shoes.

Her feet kicked up silt as she strode along the waterline, keeping all but her nose and eyes beneath the water to minimize her profile. She found it easier to travel after the waves broke, Anne allowing the water to gently push her feeble body to the side, break, and then calm a moment for her to step forward, her feet bouncing over the ground as she kept this rhythm up.

Soon enough, she was gliding beneath the pier. She flinched at each footstep creaking over her head, and tried to focus on the filthy underside of the planks. Little shafts of moonlight shone through the holes and spaces between planks, the lights blinking out as they were tread on. Anne traced the path of the guards from her hiding place, trying to keep quiet if the dim spots drew too close. Cobwebs and algae were strung between the beams, the undead impatiently swiping them aside while trying not to splash the water, uncaring of any spiders and fish that may bite her. She was shivering violently by the time her destination was in sight, the kilometer trip feeling longer than any other.

The newly reconstructed galleon stood against the cloudy sky, the moonlight giving the vessel a ghostly appearance. The silhouette held dusty sails and skeletal rigging, many pieces and parts nailed down haphazardly to patch the holes and damaged bits. The repairs caused some sections to awkwardly stick out with layers of wood and metal, giving it an asymmetrical slant. It was ugly, but sturdy enough for the job and there was little alternative.

The guards eviscerated anything that posed a threat to the safety of the ships, and suffered no undead thanks to that old superstition the Darksign could be transmitted by simple contact. However, Anne found a single weakness in their security: they focused on ships that were to set sail that day, while the rest were guarded slightly less. There were still men posted, but they rotated less frequently, and there was more time between rotations.

She’d spied on this ship every day, watching the workers restore the vessel to full seafaring strength one piece at a time. The next day, they would put the last of the cargo aboard and the passengers would be allowed on, and it would set sail.

Anne watched the guards step away from the ship, their armor clinking on the boards as they made small talk and headed for the inn for a good night’s sleep. Her body screamed with the effort of swimming through the thick water, her lungs burning as salt water was thrown into her gasping mouth, though she refused to slow her pace, even as her arms felt like they had lead weights on them. Anne’s quivering hands gripped the edge of the pier. Her blood roared in her ears as she surveyed all the people at their posts or walking around, though none were looking this way.

Anne crawled from the water, grunting with exertion and willing herself to move faster as she slowly rose. Her belly throbbed as she drug it across the planks, the undead clawing her way forward with her emaciated hands. She got to her knees and hastily scurried up the plank, feeling no time to get on her feet as she limped her way up. A single gaunt figure on an otherwise empty ship stuck out against the moonlight like a candle in a black room. If even one person glanced in her direction, it was all over.

She got to the open deck, the pads of her feet sounding like the loudest bells as she kept her eyes over her shoulder, running to where she knew the way down was.

“Now, what you doing in such a hurry at this hour?”

Anne froze, her entire body shaking as she looked forward. She missed one;  some new hire that decided to board at an off hour of the night and deny her the window she was counting on. In any case, she was now looking right at a watchman, and he was looking right at her.

He was certainly a strange one, and that was coming from a well-traveled undead. His head was completely bald and slanted forward, his low squat and long, pointy nose giving him the spitting image of a roosting crow. He blended into the background perfectly in his black leather armor, though it was patched with several pads of tan leather and canvas, with a steel pauldron on his left shoulder belted on as an afterthought.

Right next to him were a greatshield and a massive, black halberd, though he didn’t reach for either as he eyed her with sly interest. She didn’t blame him. Even if she drew her sword, she would barely be a threat to him.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” He taunted. Anne moved her lips and desperately willed them to form words, but no matter how hard she tried, her body refused to behave. The strange man kept talking, “Not much of a talker are you? Well, you look reasonably sane. I take it you want to ride this big, grand old boat to the land beyond the big portal, eh?”

Anne nodded, quivering at his tone,

“Yes, of course, though I’m not sure what you plan to do once you skip over to the other side. You’re practically hollow, two feet in the grave, just waiting for the last push.” he snickered, “The foreman would be mighty testy to see you skulking about here, but you’re in luck! Just between you and me,” he said, dropping his voice, “I’m undead too.”

She nearly smiled, hoping it showed on her face. The man returned the gesture with a devious smirk, though she believed that was his only expression at this point, “That’s right. Come on over, the quarters are just down these stairs.” he said, standing up to motion towards them.

Annie walked over, the crow stepping aside for her, “Take care to watch your step, it’s mighty treacherous.” he snickered. The undead paused, cautiously placing her foot on the top step and realizing just how steep it was as she leaned over for a better look.

She felt a boot dig into her back with incredible force, the kick knocking her from her feet. She went face first into the steps, sending her toppling end over end until she landed at the bottom in a heap. Anne felt her thick blood streaming down her forehead as she stared at the ceiling in shock. She could feel her arm was broken underneath her, though her head was ringing too badly to concentrate on it, the waves of shock making her nauseous.

She could hear the wily bastard calling down, laughing like a hyena, “You hollows never learn to watch where you're standing. You get what you deserve you greedy-guts!”

Anne slowly rolled over, doing everything she could to ignore the pain as she pushed herself up with her good arm. If she got a little distance, maybe she could sip some Estus. She had no idea how to fight a healthy, fully restored undead with her strength reduced to practically nothing, but she had to try. She made it to her feet and limped a few paces, but her side began to feel heavy as her arm limply dangled.

Anne fell against the wall and slid down, smearing blood as she went. The undead caught herself, moaning as she continued limping forward on all fours with an almost insane persistence. The patter of footsteps announced the treacherous dog, the undead looking over her shoulder at the sly devil as he reached her. He stopped short, “What? How are you still conscious? That tumble should have killed you before you reached the bottom.”

Anne propped herself against the wall, gazing at him. The crow’s expression was replaced by a poor imitation of regret, “Oh, don’t look at me that way.” he said, “You’ll be dead soon enough anyhow, you won’t be needing any trinkets once you’re hollow.”

He was right. Anne’s eyes got a little teary as she faced that. She had no chance. Yet some part of her refused to surrender. She stared at him, possessing just enough strength to give a silent plea for mercy.

He met her eye, unwilling to do the deed personally. He finally relented, “Gah. Put down one rotten cleric, and suddenly you’re soft for all hollows. Well, that’s just fine. You don’t have a thing worth taking anyhow.”

He started away, but stopped to add, “Oh, and should we ever bump into eachother again, remember that good old Trusty Patches did you a favor, eh? No harsh feelings.” Patches finished his ascent thereafter, Anne hesitating as she wondered if he was really gone.

The undead reached to her side and weakly drew her Estus Flask, the liquid flame defying gravity and pooling upwards like rising air as she tipped the jade glass to her lips. The enchantment of the flask drew the broiling liquid fire into her mouth; it was tasteless and scalding hot, but she could feel the warmth remedying her wounds.

She drunk liberally as the wound on her head stopped bleeding and her aching arm and fingers started moving again, her forearm crackling as the bones were pulled together and fused, spreading an itchy, tingly feeling over her thin skin. Even though she still didn’t feel well, she denied herself more once her major injuries were gone. She turned the glass in her hand, seeing how much it took to heal a simple head injury and broken arm. It was clear, now more than ever, that Estus wasn’t going to be enough to save her withering body soon. Even when she was able to get enough food and water for the day, she continued to wither, all her energy being fed to the Darksign.

Anne, with shaking hands, put her Estus back in her holster, braced her knees, and returned to her unsteady feet. Her breastplate was hanging off her body, the undead looking down and sighing when she saw her tattered armor was even worse now. She didn’t have the means to repair the broken loops and torn fabric, so she simply pulled it the rest of the way off and tossed it into a vacant room.

It wasn’t going to help her anyway, so she focused on getting into the hold and hiding herself... assuming Patches kept his word and didn’t reveal her location. The interior was completely black, so Anne drew her Estus Flask and used the faint flames to guide her way, creeping down the decayed halls of the derelict ship until she reached the lowermost deck.

She stumbled over barrels and crates of varying sizes, looking for a place they wouldn’t think to check while keeping anything from getting knocked out of place. Nowhere looked ideal, but she did find a small gap between a set of crates that could conceal her if she squeezed in. She pushed her way into the gap and settled in for the long wait.

 

* * *

 

High in the Jerall mountains, on an uninhabited icy plateau, a crackling emanated through the thick snow. The large drift cracked open like an eggshell, trapped air hissing as the tips of two great black wings pierced the surface. The World-Eater pried his cramped body from the depths, sheets of ice and snow falling from his scaly hide as he shook himself off. He stretched his wings, legs, and tail. He was more than well-rested, though he felt more agitated than ever.

In his slumber, he dreamt of the dov. He saw how the treacherous jul hunted them down like animals and celebrated their victory over the children of Akatosh. He saw them drive his loyal followers to undeath, cowering in icy tombs to hide from the rest of the world. But the greatest insult of all was how jul forgot dov, and dismissed them as mere legends and fairytales. Alduin’s grand legacy, the vast and ages-old culture of the Dragon Cult… all of it passed from memory and was allowed to go to ruin. Now, the foolish traitors wasted their already limited potential on petty squabbles amongst their meager clans and families, spilling their own blood in the name of false thur.

Alduin tested his great black wings, an overwhelming sense of liberation filling him as he took to the air at long last. The trees passed beneath him faster and faster as Alduin picked up momentum. After gliding a fair distance down the mountain, he leveled off and soared above Mundus with speed, his body flexing as he caught the prevailing winds to hasten his trip. How fitting the World-Eater would be among the first dovah in five-thousand years to take flight, in this age of unbelief. The wind roared over his ears and raked down his face, his sharp eyes scanning the countryside beneath him, focused but calm.

The mighty World-Eater had no intention of squandering this opportunity.

The jul lived in blissful denial of the dov; a sense of false security to help their children rest easier at night, and their warriors walk the ground without gazing at the skies in fear. Alduin announced his presence with multiple triumphant roars, his voice echoing over the mountains for miles, resonating through the trees and valleys. He would remind them of the dov, he would burn it into the lands with fire from the sky and rivers of jul blood running across the ground. This day, and every day after, the shadow of the dov would inspire terror in the hearts of all joor once again.

Alduin rode for several hours, his burning red eyes settling on a large town. It wasn’t quite a kingdom, but the array of large stone buildings across the valley was large enough to be easily spotted from the air. He descended rapidly, his thu’um coming out as a whisper, “ _laas yah nir._ ” The flickering auras of thousands flooded his vision, the World-Eater spotting an especially large congregation near a large tower.

He was truly favored by fate this day, for a more perfect stage to make his grand entrance could not be asked for. Alduin swooped onto the tower, rubble breaking off the battery as his claws dug into the rotunda. The suddenness scattered the jul below him as Alduin’s piercing gaze swept over the display, the tower creaking under his feet.

He could see the headsman’s block at his feet, a prisoner in ratty armor writhing on the ground as his executioner retreated with fear. There were others too. All who donned a blue garb over their shoulder were in binds, while their executioners wore clean leathers with faint red highlights. Their banners evoked his father’s image, the scarlet standards hanging from the dwellings and towers as if to claim they were protected by the father of dov.

Again, it was Alduin who was favored with an audience from all sides of their petty war.

His address was plain, “ _Zu'u lost daal."_ Alduin’s thu’um cracked like thunder, summoning a great vortex that blotted out the sun. Burning stones that carried the reek of sulfur rained down, the terrified joore scattering from him as the burning stones went screaming into the dwellings like cannon fire. Above the cracks of thunder and roar of meteors Alduin’s voice could be heard clearly as he boasted, _"Kel drey ni viik. Zu'u Alduin, zok sahrot do naan ko Lein, hin kah fen kos bonaar!"_

He took to wing again, their pathetic arrows glancing harmlessly off his flesh. There was a man in gold riding through the flames on horseback, his shouts and gestures rallying the troops to fire upon Alduin. The World-Eater would spare that one, and the others standing above the nameless sheep. He would leave them to witness.

Alduin breathed in, exhaling rays of lightning. The beam tore through the building in front of him, the bricks shattering into molten, red-hot chunks as he swept the ray to the side, tracing a line of destruction across the way. The row of stone dwellings toppled like weeds before him, kicking up dust and rubble that silenced many prisoners left to die by their captors. Alduin soared down the streets, where numerous scurrying jul were trampling eachother to escape. Many were struck by the falling stones, the meteors leaving great, smoking craters and gore wherever they made landfall.

“Yol,” he inhaled deeply, his throat filling with flames. Alduin exhaled a tempest of searing blue fire that flooded the roads below him. The smell of burning flesh teased his nostrils, reminding him how long it’d been since he’d feasted on joor flesh, but there would be time for that later as singed joorre scattered to the sides, their skin turning luscious shades of violet, black, and red as they pulled the burning garbs off their bodies, many more convulsing on the ground and succumbing moments later.

The heavens calmed briefly as the meteors were depleted, but that was far from all the World-Eater had to throw into the pandemonium below him. He shouted once more into the sky, each sharp word shaking Nirn and echoing over the mountain, “ _Strun! Bah! Qo!_ ”

The sky wept torrents of rain, but there was no relief as the heavens lit up with a dazzling web of lighting. There were no screams this time. All who were struck died a nearly instant death, metal fixtures and objects on the ground heating up as thunderbolts arced over them. That which didn’t turn to ashes silently fell over, smoldering as the living fled Alduin’s wrath.

The World-Eater made several more passes with his flames, the barrage of lightning and fire upon the ruined city making the holocaust absolute. After mere minutes, his aural whisper revealed only the faintest worms hiding underground or in the hills. Alduin would not have this tale go unspoken and called off the storms and the flame. He made a final tour of his works as he circled away, the clouds parting overhead to allow lonely shafts of daylight through.

The sun revealed a city reduced to a blasted, burning husk. A great cloud of smoke drifted on the winds, marking the gravesite to any near the mountains. Alduin was pleased. It was a petty and insignificant skirmish, but it was enough to send his message to all the world.

 

* * *

 

The flight from Jerall to Velothi was many days by wing. Once he entered the mountains, Alduin followed the winding path of sheer cliffs and caves that composed the secret ascent to Skuldafn. Only the absolute most veteran and loyal members of Alduin’s court were allowed to reside here. Not even Paarthurnax knew its exact location, a fact he’d never been more thankful for.

As Alduin crested the plateau, he was met by the refreshing sight of his most important citadel intact. It was a little worn due to sheer age and lack of resources- a problem Alduin could remedy with his thu’um-, but otherwise it was as he remembered it. The foundation was long, flat, and round, filling the space between the mountain peaks and spanning three levels of ground. All the dwellings, storehouses, and arches on the ground level were built with perfect symmetry, leading the eye to the first great wall at the back.

Upon this second terrace was the royal district reserved for his clergy and most favored followers. Above that, on the acropolis, was Alduin’s overlook. It was a great throne room with an open face, granting a perfect view of the mountains below.

The crown jewel of his castle shone so brightly it resembled a star. Pulled from Aetherius at the end of the last world, it was a titanic soulgem that didn’t house a single soul, rather cycled power from Mundus to Sovngarde and back again. It powered the portal in Alduin’s throne room below it, a beacon of the World-Eater’s inexorable dominion over the souls of the dead.

Three rings, three tiers, with everyone occupying their proper place; he on the top, watching over all else and closest to Sovngarde, while his servants occupied the base to protect them. All the central space was open and flat, allowing the dov to meet and mingle with him at their leisure, while the jul were interned to the fringe, forming a crescent of dwellings enclosing his forum.

As Alduin expected, his entrance was met by a grand party. The World-Eater landed on the central path running up the sanctuary, flanked by loyal servants and several dov who let up a chant to honor him as the World-Eater made his way to the overlook. He’d prefer to fly, but they needed recognition for their efforts.

The World-Eater looked side to side, pitying the jul’s sad state as their cheering grew to deafening levels, their feet like thunder on the ground as they anxiously shuffled in place. They could unnaturally extend their fragile lives, but they would never know eternal strength like the dov did. Their ceremonial steel armor and weapons, once the pride of Tamriel, had rusted to a deep black hue that effaced most of the finer engravings and details. Their breath was cold and wheezy, each movement of their exposed teeth stretching the grey skin over their desiccated faces, while their eyes shone through their horned-helms with unnatural blue light.

Their flesh was burned by the cold, although the army still looked as impressive and menacing as it did millennia ago, the assembly standing straight-backed and proud in formation. Perhaps they would prove useful, afterall it would be a shame to assemble his armies from nothing. There was nothing he couldn’t vanquish, but even Alduin couldn’t be everywhere at once.

The World-Eater progressed through Skuldafn, the crowd going quiet as Alduin reached his waiting gatekeeper at the foot of the acropolis. His posture was perfectly straight and composed; even his breathing was subdued to prevent it from causing offense. His profile was slightly taller than the ancient Bron surrounding him, accentuated by a black cloak billowing around him like furled wings. The priest mask granted to him was built for battle, such that it could hardly be called a mask. Rather, it was an enchanted, many-horned ebony helm with white and fainter strokes of red around his narrow eyes.

That dov aspect, along with the lavish silver and gold adornments on his neck and cape, would have been too grandiose for a mere servant if it were anyone but him. Nahkriin bowed and greeted him in Dovahzul, “*Welcome home, my overlord.”

Alduin was disappointed to hear his fine voice so raspy and feeble, but responded, “*You never fail to impress me with your devotion and forethought, Nahkriin. It pleases me to return to a throne well-tended.”

“*You’re too kind. I’m certain you’re famished after being away so long, but before you return to Sovngarde to feed,” Nahkriin said, his intuition impeccable as always, “*I feel it is most urgent to inform you the world is not as you remember it, if you will allow me.”

“*You’ve never given me cause to doubt your judgement, Nahkriin. Speak.”

“*Me and my fellow Priests awaited your return. To weather the millennia, we took power from the gateway and spread it to consecrated grounds across the land, granting us unnaturally long lives. This you know. However, in the time I was sleeping, some of the loyal dov grew restless, and wished to hasten your return.” Alduin raised his brows as Nahkriin continued, “*They wished to channel the very same power used to cast you out, and were successful in finding an Elder Scroll and the means to use it, though it was lost in the process. I awoke when I sensed you falling through one of the time scars they created.”

“*Yes, good.” Alduin said, “*I don’t care how you accomplished such a task, all that matters is you were successful. But,” he added sternly, “*What do you mean ‘one of’?”

Nahkriin bowed his head, Alduin prepared to hear something unfavorable as the gatekeeper spoke, “*The dov, and our master wizards, were so enthused by the chance to return you to our time, they grew reckless. They did not take proper precautions in handling the Elder Scroll and channeling its powers. They were able to exploit the time scar and pry it open, but it was a job done too well.”

Alduin needed no further explanation, instead asking, “*How many?”

“*I don’t know.” Nahkriin said, “*The flow of time has become… convoluted. Timescars are appearing everywhere, opening and closing with no discernable order. And there is the rift over the Sea of Ghosts; a scar unlike anything we’ve seen before, but it’s stable. So stable, in fact, mysterious beings from another time- perhaps even another plane of Nirn- have been passing through.”

“*Are the scars a threat to Nirn?”

“*No,” Nahkriin answered, Alduin relieved as the gatekeeper elaborated, “*The smaller scars are vanishing with no noticeable damage left behind, and the rift is a simple doorway for now. Time has been disrupted, but ripples are not enough to break an ocean. The only threat we _may_ encounter are beings from this other world, but I doubt they rival your power, my overlord.”

“*I doubted that jul could best me in battle, and I was proven wrong,” Alduin scoffed, “*I want to know more about this place.”

“*I am glad you say so. Fortunately, Skuldafn is presently entertaining a guest who may have the answers you seek.”

Alduin seethed, but measured his response to that, “*You invited an outsider to Skuldafn?”

“*No. He found us.”

“*And was able to reach this sanctuary? Impossible.”

“*I could not believe it either. According to this… serpent, it’s been dead for over 200 years and found Skuldafn by following the trail of souls. Were it under any other circumstance, I would have struck it down without hesitation. However, it’s intelligent, and very knowledgeable of the other world. I believed it wise to let you speak with it, may it fall on my head should that prove unwise.”

Alduin pondered the idea, nodding, “*Yes, I will feast after I have spoken with it, though I foresee a long discussion with this snake, as you call it. After you have shown me to him,” he added, Nahkriin quietly guiding him, “*I want you to send forth all my loyal dov, tell them to bear this message to all my followers. I shall make it simple,”

“*Of course, my overlord. What is your message?”

Alduin looked past Nahkriin, into the horizon of this new world, “*Prepare.”

 


	2. Let Strength Be Granted

The undead drifted through fields of flames, her tears evaporating off her shriveling eyes as she forced them closed. The undead could feel cinders breaking across her face as the tempest struck at her from all sides, helpless to even scream with pain as smoke flooded her lungs. As her flesh blackened and peeled away in the hot wind, she could feel her mind and soul being eroded as well.

The diabolic flames hungered for her soul, each lick threatening to undo her completely as her memories faded away, her sense of self and purpose fodder for the fires. She was being erased.

It was all too familiar, the undead weathering the tide to the best of her abilities as all her worst failures and experiences surfaced in her mind. She knew it would pass, she just needed to hold on... Onto what?

She tried to think of a reason to go on, but couldn’t find one as she continued to burn away. A sense of numbness overtook her as her nerves burnt out and she went into shock, though her chest throbbed as she heaved for air.

Hope never felt so far away as the last of her strength faded, the blinding reds and golds giving way to black. Oblivion crept in from all sides as she reflected on her existence.

When she disappeared, would anyone remember her?

No. How could they remember one of a million, a billion nameless hollows like her?

Just as she let go, a blinding light tore away the darkness and snuffed out the flames with the suddenness of a lead cup over a candle. This luminance was like nothing she’d felt before, certainly nothing like the flame.

The hollow slowly opened her eyes, starlight flooding her vision in the shape of an archdragon. She could see all the light in the universe flowing through it, yet the brightness didn’t harm her. She could feel the ashes of her body returning, time undoing itself around her as black and grey flakes reconnected to her bones, took on blood and became flesh again.

Was this a Great Lord? No, something told her that wasn’t it. The gods were long dead, and paid no mind to humanity. Besides, lords still bled, and aged, and died. This thing peering through her soul… it was something else entirely.

She wanted to reach out to it, but it was already drifting away from her. Her eyes closed in a death-like trance as she fell back into the mortal coil.

 

* * *

 

The undead snapped awake, rolled over, and coughed until she swore bits of muscle were leaving her mouth as she fought the urge to pass out again. The flames surrounding her weren't as intense as the ones in limbo as she tried to get her lungs working, her head swimming with the effort of getting properly oriented as she weakly crawled from the crater she awoke in.

She had no right to be alive after brushing that close to hollowing. It wasn’t important, though. What was important was getting her racing thoughts composed. She needed to find out where in the world she was, and where to go next.

She rested on all fours, her head ringing louder than church bells, when she sensed danger nearby. The undead spotted a pair of hard leather boots as she looked up, and wasted no time taking to her feet. Black dots traced over her eyes, her hands fumbling for her sword as she staggered from the sudden movement.

Her sword was drawn before her vision was fully clear, her arms shaking as she tried to support the battered steel blade. The thing in front of her, now gazing at her with doe-eyed confusion, was like nothing she’d seen or heard of, save maybe descriptions of the old Path of the Dragon.

It was a lizard, though it had many traces of humanity in it, like walking on two legs and being dressed. His- if it was a he- scales were a murky shade of very dark green, though not quite black, with a frill of colorful feathers on his head. The undead pried herself from his shocking looks, instead focusing on his garb.

His leathers were dark as his hide; effective camouflage were it not for the shaft of light filtering through the ceiling. He was armed, but his weapons were sidearms; a shortsword on his hip, a bandolier of knives across his chest, and a bludgeon poking out from his back.

Like her, he had extra belts with knapsacks, though one had a conspicuous golden chain hanging from the side. He was a thief. He relied on stealth over brawn, though his clothes were surely over chainmail or a coat-of-plates to protect him. He didn’t plan to get into a fight, though he had a means of defending himself if things went south. The light he stood in came from a blasted hole in the ceiling, and the burning crater in the ground looked like it was caused by a cannon or catapult- looting a city destroyed by war?

The thing spoke, “Hi?”

The lizard sounded innocent enough, but the undead raised her sword higher. Thieves were unpredictable, that made them dangerous. The thief put his hands up, “I don’t know what I just saw, but I don’t mean you harm. Hmm,” he pondered, gazing through the hole in the ceiling, “Wait, you’re one of those afturganga, aren't you? What am I talking about, who else crawls out of bonfires looking half-dead.” He thought aloud, “No offense, but you don’t look very well.”

She stared at him intently as her mind swirled with questions - _Who are you? Where am I? What happened here?-_ . The man -else it was a woman with deepest, raspiest voice she’d ever heard- reached out again, “Unless I’m mistaken, you _do_ speak the same language.”

Her silence remained unbroken, every attempt to draw her voice ending with her choking the air back down. The lizard tapped the side of his head, “Are you deaf?”

The undead narrowed her eyes at his attitude, the lizard shaking his head a little, “Not deaf, just very stubborn.”

_Speak, damn you, speak_ , the undead thought to herself, her teeth gritting. The more she tried to push herself, the more her throat tensed.

Something crossed the lizard’s eyes; a deep melancholy of a sort as he looked over her wrecked armor, rusted sword, and violated body, “I get it.” The undead lowered her sword as the lizard leisurely continued, “My name is Jaren-Fey. I was orphaned and Riften, and you could say it’s made me soft for those hard on their luck, though I have a habit of taking things that aren't mine. I’ve devoted a lot of time and septims to helping children like me, and some of them have much the same look you do. Sometimes all the pain, and the torment, it makes you go quiet.”

It was strange hearing him lay all that on her. He could be lying to lull her into a false sense of security, but there was undeniable benevolence in his voice as he offered again, “Now that I’ve trusted you with a few things about me, why don’t you trust me with a few things about you?”

The undead concentrated on her fondest memories; peaceful moments by the bonfire alongside transient bands of strangers like her. Whores, leches, nobles, murderers, priests and nuns and knights; they all partook in food and drink together. She’d join soothing arias to the lords and drunkenly shout lewd ballads in the same meal.

The undead stunned herself with the raspy sounds leaving her lips, “Why do you care?”

Jaren shrugged, “I don’t know. You’re all mad, honestly. Everything I’ve heard says you’re common thugs at best. But,” he added, “You, the ones who come back a few times before they stay down… I don’t know, I guess I’m too soft to ignore how pitiful you look.”

“I’m glad you pity us,” the undead spat, “We’re called undead, and I’m not with the others.”

“Did you get separated?”

“No. The world fell apart when the curse overcame us, now humans destroy undead on sight. I had to stowaway to get here, though I didn’t make it here alive.”

“Oh,” Jaren said, “I’m sorry to ask this, but should I leave now? I don’t think I want world-ending demons near me.”

“Lick my taint,” the undead grumbled, “the only way I can hurt you is by burying my sword in your chest, like everyone else.”

“I hope you don’t.” Jaren said, “So, what do they call strapping young undead girls where you come from?”

The undead wondered how he kept his tone so insufferably cheerful as she remembered her name was-

The undead’s breath grew short as she fought to remember, grasping for it as hard as she could, but it was like trying to read a language she didn’t know. Cold sweat broke out on her face, the undead trying to keep sorrow from edging into her tone, “You should go,” she said, “I’ve already forgotten my name. There’s no doubt I’ll crack soon, and I don’t want you to get hurt when I go hollow.”

“Hollow.”  Jaren said to himself, “What does that mean?”

“Our immortality comes at a great cost,” the undead said, “I don’t know if this world has humans, but we’re not supposed to look like this.”

“I’ve seen plenty of starving,” he said, “Of all races, including humans. Come with me, I’ll find you an inn with good meals and strong ale. I can help you.”

“It doesn’t matter!” she snapped, her voice cracking, “If it were that simple, I wouldn’t be skin and bones.”

Jaren’s brow wrinkled with concentration, “Are you sure there’s no cure?”

“No.”

“No reagents or charms?"

“I said no,” she snapped, “Hollowing can only be reversed by Humanity, and Humanity is impossible to find now.”

“Mmm hmm,” he said, “When you say ‘Humanity’, do you mean you eat people, or are they adorable little ghosts?”

“Yes, actually they are.”

“Do they have a black body with a halo of white fire, and two tiny little eyes?”

“Yes.” the undead said, her arms falling limp to her sides, “So you’ve heard of it? From the immigrants?”

“No,” he said, drawing a glass jar from a side pocket, “But I found a few.”

The undead’s eyes widened as she stared into the tiny eyes of the sprite hovering in its prison. It was just as the stories described… but she’d never seen one in her life, in fact she’d never even _heard_ of someone having it, and this wasn’t even the right world. She was frozen for several moments, taken aback with sheer disbelief this was happening. Her voice barely rose above a whisper, “Where did you get that?”

“Well you see, it’s actually a funny story.” he said, “I was chasing butterflies -blue butterfly wing makes the most wonderful conjuration tonics- when a scar appeared in front of me and, being the inquisitive soul that I am, I walked to it and saw a large bundle of black and white appear. It started leeching into the ground and dissolving into these sprites, so I took a few. Afterall, there aren't many occasions to tinker with reagents from another world. After some botched attempts to find out what they do exactly, I saved the last one for a rainy day, or at least I was going to until the dragon attacked Helgen while I was fleecing the locals.” He tossed the jar to the undead woman, who nearly dropped it due to sheer shock, “I guess I’ll run one more experiment. It’s yours.”

The undead tore the jar open, pulled the sprite from its vessel, and crushed it. The sprite violently burst into a cloud of black flames, the undead’s skin prickling with cold as they were drawn to her like a small moth seeking a warm flame. Tingles ran down her spine as it seeped into her, the undead feeling it spread through her body.

Nothing happened, the woman looking over herself and feeling a pit in her stomach threatening to swallow her breaking heart. _I guess the tales were just that, tales for the sake of comforting us._

The undead’s head filled with a sound like rushing air, small embers starting to rise off her body. The corona of her Darksign flared up until it looked like she had an eclipsed sun on her throat, hot clouds of ash spreading across her chest and down her extremities as a garish orange glow covered the room.

Flames burst from her body, flooding half the room with light as she became a blaze. She was frozen by all the souls surging through her. Her heart pulsed with power she hadn’t felt in years, her body shaking from the intensity so badly she could hardly bear it, but it didn’t feel painful at all.

She spread her arms and let it carry her, her clothes tightening on her skin as her muscles bulged against the fabric. Her back crunched as her spine straightened itself out, her joints nearly broken as they cracked into their proper positions. Her stomach flattened as ailments she’d suffered so long she forgot they were there were cleansed. She regained her senses enough to pull her gloves off and look at her hands, the undead watching her leathery skin becoming soft and pale as the layers of burn-scars and bruises faded.

Even when the flames became smoldering embers and faded from view, she could feel them rushing through her body. She felt renewed in a way she couldn’t imagine as she rubbed her cheeks, closing her eyes and basking in all the sensations. Her hearing and sense of touch, even the moisture of her tongue licking her pearly teeth; they were things that’d dulled for so long having them back was almost overpowering.

She folded the flesh of her full cheeks between her fingers, working it around with her thumbs and feeling how soft it all was while her fair hair brushed over the backs of her hands. She felt like a goddess, or at the very least a completely different person. How else could she describe regaining things she’s lost over the course of decades in an instant?

The undead finally regained her composure and opened her ice-blue eyes. She ran her hands down her tattered armor just to feel all the dirt, sand, ashes, and threadbare cloth, before they rested on her thick hips. She could eat glass and find it the most pleasurable sensation in all the world at this moment.

If lizards could look flustered, the one in front of her was, “I think I know what it does now. Hmm,” Jaren put his hand on his chin, his scholarly expression resembling one looking at a painting. The undead glanced down and realized her right breast was completely exposed by one of the several gaping holes in her gambeson, the patchwork of sutures and scorched leather coming undone again. Of course it was shite before, but with a fully developed body it was a lot more noticeable.

“I think it’s time for a change of wardrobe.” She said, pleased her voice was clear and didn’t feel like sandpaper in her throat, “This wouldn’t protect me from a spring breeze, yet alone a blade. When you’re quite finished admiring my bosom, care to find me a blacksmith?”

“I think he’s dead, as are most of the people here.” Jaren said. He rummaged through a slightly singed chest in the corner, pulling out a flowing, elegant dress and holding it up for her, “This looks presentable.”

“What do you expect me to do with that? Go ballroom dancing?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. The undead scowled a bit, “Alright, I’ll stop.” Jaren snickered as he casually dropped the garment, “I believe I saw an armorer down the road. I’m not sure if anything survived the dragon, but it’s worth a look.”

“Alright.” She said, walking for the door until the lizard called to her again,

“Wait. I said ‘the dragon’, didn’t I?”

The undead turned and raised an eyebrow, “What of it?”

He gazed at her, “It doesn’t bother you to learn a ferocious, fire breathing beast from out of myth is a about? I’m not expecting panic, but I thought you’d at least question me on it.”

The undead let out an annoyed sigh, “After everything you’ve seen, you think a dragon surprises me?”

“That’s a very good point.” He said, the undead shaking her head as she let herself out.

As she walked the empty road, she tried to imagine how the city must’ve looked before it was ruined. A complex web of roads wove before her, which already made it more organized than home and gave her an idea how many lived here once. The uneven ground at the foot of the mountains gave the city a sloping effect as it sprawled out, the undead woman watching her feet to avoid the large pits marring the already uneven street.

Nearly all the wooden dwellings were reduced to a barren husk of a foundation, and multiple stone fortifications were blasted away with a tremendous force. Not even everlasting stone could withstand the strike of a dragon, she supposed.

The destruction was incredible for certain, yet it wasn’t the ashes that gave her pause as she searched for the blacksmith’s.

Her boots brushed over bits of charred wood and hay thatch as she heard the wooden storefront signs swaying in their mangled metal frames. The chill mountain wind brushed over the once thriving settlement, the light breeze whistling to an unnerving degree as it passed.

The town was just another open grave now. Uncountable bodies were abandoned in various states of burning, the stench of death heavy in the air. Some were reduced to little more than skeletons, others were hideously scarred and left a trail of melted flesh as they tried to drag themselves to safety, joining the pile of corpses on the side of the road.

Ravens were circling everywhere, enjoying the meal while the undead tried to imagine what it was like in those final moments. The majority of these people bore no arms, and were completely unprepared for the attack. Why did living a peaceful existence invite this sorrow? Did the gods damn this place as much as the last.

The undead faced forward when she reached her destination at the corner. The store was less a building than a small residence with a long balcony to the side, the thatch roof now occupying the ground. The undead stepped over the charred rafters blocking the steps and set to work rummaging through the debris to find anything useful.

A quiet forge on its last embers was sitting in the corner alongside a table of blacksmith’s tools. A few racks of armor were sitting on the ground, a table filled with weapons occupying the back and side of the display. Fortunately, the volcanic rock that crashed through the building and cratered the ground landed in the center, leaving most of the equipment alone.

The undead looked and listened for anyone nearby before she set to work stripping her equipment. First went the belts, the woman handling them with care as they held the only possessions she had.

She took her old sword in hand, admiring all the rust decorating the hilt and how the quillons were bent at awkward angles. The blade was covered with nicks and scars, warped by countless strikes, and generally so blunt it was a wonder it could draw blood at all. Like her, it was weathered and beaten, but miraculously did what it needed and endured all the way to the new world.

She was almost sad to let it go. Almost, but she still readily discarded it in favor of a fine blade no more than a week off the forge.

Her Estus holster was the last thing to come off, the vessel placed on the table so she could reach it as swiftly as possible.

She noticed it was only half full and definitely not as luminous as before. She hoped her brethren planted bonfires around there, or she was going to be out of healing very soon. Next was her boots, the undead turning one over and watching a pile of sand and shredded leather pour from the lip. Her feet were grateful to be free of them as she tossed the useless things aside, the thatch brushing her as she awkwardly stripped her pants off. Once she had her legs free and kicked the trousers aside, she lifted the remnants of her gambeson off her shoulders and heaped it on the floor with everything else.

Her newly reformed skin prickled as the cold washed over her. While the fresh mountain air was wonderful to breathe, it wasn’t the best thing to stand in, so she made haste in getting her new suit on. As tempting as it was to just grab the heaviest, bulkiest armor possible and go tromping around like a fangboar, she carefully weighed her options and picked a set that best suited her needs.

She slipped into a snug undershirt of thick brown furs to protect her from the cold and cushion her armor, the collar just high enough to cover her Darksign. Afterward, she pulled on equally heavy trousers and boots. She wished for proper stockings as she fussed with the armor fittings and attached thin but sturdy steel grieves to her moccasins. She pulled at the edges of her armor and flexed her leg to make sure everything was secure, then belted on her pants and moved to her chest.

She slid a chainmail hauberk over her furry underclothes and grabbed a three-piece steel plate that came with it. It was a round breastplate with a fitting on each corner, allowing it to comfortably support any size cuirass beneath, as well as sporting ornate steel pauldrons that covered her upper arms. She wasn’t usually one for fancy equipment, but she felt safer already as she fixed it over her armor and was surprised to find how naturally it fitted.

She placed a studded leather tasset supported by a steel pad over her midsection to round it off. The hauberk extended just far enough to give her thighs some protection, but it never hurt to have a skirt, and the belt pulled the hauberk down to keep it secured and evenly weighted.

She found herself donning thick gloves once more, rounded steel protecting the backs of her forearms from damage, though her wrists were still vulnerable. With her set complete, she attached all her equipment to her waist while her Estus remained concealed under the tasset flap on her right leg. She felt something was missing, and decided to grab one of the iron helms near her.

As much as she tried to avoid clunky bits of kit, she grabbed a one-size-too-large iron helm and slipped it on. Even with it tied down it wobbled as she shook her head back and forth, the nosepiece distracting her a little. It wasn’t her first option, but it was a fair price to keep her head attached.

She posed in various ways, swaying around to find her center of balance. The set was fairly weighted, didn’t feel overly loose or tight for the most part, and protected the areas it needed to. None too shabby, certainly better than the old set.

Jaren crept up on her as she finished getting her sword on, “Look at you. All you need is the reek of beer and a few smudges of muck, and you’d pass for a fine mercenary.”

The undead turned to him, her fingers tapping the pommel of her new longsword, “Not sure if I should take offense to that, considering my only life skills are cut and stab.”

“If you plan to make a living off fighting, you’ve come to the right place.” Jaren said, “There’s a civil war on right now; everyone worth their salt is tied up in it. As such, bandits, thugs, and assorted ruffians of all stripes are running rampant, knowing the guards won’t spare the bother of chasing them down.”

“Like you?”

“Hey,” he snapped, “I may be a no good, dirty rotten scoundrel swindling all the good folks of this province, but I’d never stoop that low. Point is, sell-swords are in great demand these days. If you don’t mind putting your life on the line, and know who to ask, you could live a cozy life in one of the holds for a good while.”

“Sounds fair,” She said, “I- You’ve already given me more than I could ask, but could you guide me to the nearest town? I don’t have anything to offer you, but once I get an idea where I am you can cut me loose and be on your way.”

“Certainly. It wouldn’t be very chivalrous to do otherwise,” they started walking as Jaren elaborated on the land a little, “The nearest settlement is a cozy little village called Riverwood. It’s a good place to rest if you’re traveling between Falkreath and Whiterun, but I wouldn’t recommend staying there too long since there isn’t very much to do. Luckily, there’s a highway that goes between the mountains that will take you right to the hold capital in a day’s travel. Whiterun’s a great place to get yourself established. Travelers come and go all the time, and with Jorrvaskr in town, you have plenty of people looking for bodyguards.”

“Jorrvaskr?”

“It’s a mead hall that hosts mercenaries claiming to be descended from the five hundred,” Jaren saw her confused look, and elaborated, “The Five-Hundred Companions of Ysgramor. My Nord history is a little rusty, but they were the founders of Skyrim and the first humans in Tamriel.”

“Is that what you call this place? Skyrim?”

“Exactly. Anyway, Ysgramor was a king from Atmora, he fled to Skyrim to escape a civil war with his people. They founded the first human civilization on the continent, but they were driven off by the Snow Elves. If the legends are true, Ysgramor came back with five-hundred warriors and drove all the elves from the region. They created the first holds in Skyrim, and later settled across Tamriel.”

“So Ysgramor is Tamriel’s lord?”

“Oh no,” he laughed, “Like I said, that was many thousands of years ago, but don’t tell the Companions that. A few of them probably _can_ tie their lineage back to the Five-Hundred, but like most Nords they seem to forget family names are just words. They charge a mint for their services and demand a lot of protections from the city since Jorrvaskr has great historical significance, but they haven’t been a prestigious order in quite a long time. Their members are young and reckless glory-seekers. They join because they want the title, not because they want to make a difference. I hear one recruit murdered her own sparring partner. No reason, she just got angry and split his chest in two. I’m sure Ysgramor would be proud.”

“Sounds like a bunch of thugs.” the undead said sourly, getting unpleasant flashbacks to the bandits running rampant in her world.

“To be fair.” he said, “Their senior members, The Circle, they’re definitely worth respecting. They’re just as rude and pretentious as the rest of them, save Farkas -he’s got a hook that could put an ox down like a sack of flour, but he’s a sweetroll on the inside- but they live up to the legend. I guess even Nords grow up eventually.”

“I take it you don’t like Nords very much.”

Jaren went quiet for several quiet moments, then proceeded with, “In any case, a lot of people are turned away from Jorrvaskr by the asking price, and settle for a freelancer instead. All you have to do is stand at the inn and look intimidating, and someone will proposition soon enough.”

The undead shrugged, “better than-” she stopped, Jaren turning towards her,

“Better than-?”

“Shh!” her footsteps went silent as she stopped to listen. She heard it again; the unmistakable sound of someone crying out in the distance,

“I hear it.” Jaren said, the two moving at a light jog, “I didn’t think there were any survivors.”

The undead didn’t answer back, focusing on the way forward as the cries became more clear.

“Hello, is anyone out there!” he cried out, “Someone, please answer!”

The duo rounded the corner just as the man collapsed against a building, “Divines, what have we done to deserve this?” Even on the ground catching his breath, he had a tall and stocky build, with hard features on his face and a head of hair that was shoulder length and dark red. His armor was made of fine brown leathers with a red trim around his tunic and a red scarf. The style was very different from her own, but she didn’t have time to think as the two came up to him.

He panicked upon seeing them, one of his bloodied arms hanging at his side while the other tried to draw his sword. Jaren called out, “Don’t panic, Imperial, we’re here to help.”

The imperial warrior didn’t seem convinced, but didn’t draw his sword as Jaren crouched by him. The man cried out the moment Jaren put his scaly hands on the bloodied arm, the limb twitching and recoiling away, “That’s definitely broken.” the lizard said,

“My leg,” the imperial complained, “There’s something wrong with it.”

“Can you walk?”

“Not for much longer.”

“What’s your name?” Jaren said sharply as the Imperial started to nod off,

“Hadvar.” he sighed, “My uncle’s a blacksmith in Riverwood, just down the way. He could help me, but I can’t get there. Not like this.”

Jaren patted Hadvar’s good shoulder, “Don’t worry about it, we’re getting you out of here.”

“Praise the Eight,” The imperial leaned heavily on the lizard when he was lifted to his feet, the undead standing over Hadvar’s shoulder as he kept talking, “it pains me to be in such miserable shape. I was ready for an ambush by the rebels, but no-one expected a creature out of myth to arrive. I don’t know if Tullius yet lives, or if Ulfric escaped, and Helgen is in ruins. We let Cyrodiil down, this day.” Hadvar gave several hard coughs, drops of blood and mucus spattering his lips.

The undead could tell his ribs were broken by the way he breathed; it didn’t take close inspection to hear how pained he was. The rubble embedded in his leathers and the clear scuff marks where his skin was drug over coarse stone told her everything.

A building fell on him, which meant his wounds were likely more serious than they looked, internal injuries a very real possibility. She reached for her Estus, but stopped. If she drew that, he’d know where she was from, and Skyrim wasn’t a very friendly place to outsiders. Would Estus even work on people from around here? She moved her hand away slowly, and mumbled “Don’t talk, you’ll only worsen your wounds.”

Hadvar looked towards her, a small hint of wonderment in his eyes, “What a strange accent. Who is she, Argonian?”

“I’m Jaren-Fey,” Jaren answered, “And she hit her head very hard.”

“Amnesia?” he said, “I see, that is very unfortunate. Do you remember where you come from?”

The undead wanted to say a lot, namely that she hailed from a hellish wasteland, but she contained herself, “I remember little,” she lied, “There was sand everywhere; just dunes as far as the eye can see, but it was no desert. It was frigid cold, and cloudy. That’s all.”

“That sounds like High Rock,” Hadvar said, “Though your skin is fair for a Bretan, and I haven't heard a voice so soft in my life,” he thought, “You may be a fellow Nord, but I’ve met none like you,”

“You could wonder all day,” she said impatiently, “It doesn’t matter in the end. No-one came looking for me, so it’s safe to say Skyrim is home now.”

“Oh dear,” Hadvar said, “I’m sorry for your loss. What should I call you?”

“I don’t really care.”

“Alright... orba.” He said.

Jaren stiffened, Orba following his line of sight, “Oh no,” he sighed as several rough figures entered town from the path they were taking. They were dressed in only rough furs and leathers and carried basic iron blades, though a few of them carried steel; the group was talking amongst themselves as they tromped into the village.

“Who are they?” Orba asked, her hand moving to her sword,

“Trouble,” Jaren answered, “I’ve been tracking those bandits for the past few days, I was planning to slip away when they got here.”

“I take it they’re not the friendly kind?” Orba asked as the marauders caught sight of the trio and moved in, their body language transparently aggressive,

“Definitely not, sit here.” Jaren said as he laid Hadvar against the nearby building and turned to the group of brigands, Orba guarding his flank. They weren't as well-equipped as the bandits in Orba’s world, but they outnumbered them six to one and Hadvar couldn’t protect himself right now.

“Well ain’t this a surprise,” one of the larger ones said, “Here we were looking to turn the keep into our hideout, and what do we find but an argonian, some adventurer, and a dog of the Legion limping their way out.”

“We were just leaving,” Jaren said, “The town’s yours.”

“Well, that’s good news.” he said, “Well, as acting baron of this town, I say you need to pay the tax.” He pointed to Jaren’s knapsack, “I know you thieving argonians are just as bad as the khajiit, so hand it over.”

“Well,” Jaren said slyly, “I’m not one to refuse a fellow thief, but you see, the _Thieve’s Guild_ is expecting me to come back with a haul, and I don’t want to disappoint my partners. Why don’t we haggle over it?”

“Thieve’s Guild? You?” he scoffed. He was nudged by one to the side,

“I think he’s the real thing.” he said, “Look at those leathers, that fine blade.”

“That’s right,” he said, “Now, gentlemen, this can only go one of two ways. If you don’t make trouble for me, I won’t make trouble for you. Whatever you do to this town is your business, I’ll let the locals sort it out. But if you make that choice,” he threatened, “Sure, the lot of you could probably beat me and do- whatever it is you plan to do. But If I’m not in Riften in the next few weeks, my associates are going to come looking for me and that’s company you do not want, friend.”

The bandits argued amongst themselves about following an Argonian’s orders or if he was really a part of this “guild”. A few of them looked Orba’s way as they broke off from the group,

“Who’s that? Is he Thieve’s Guild too?”

“No,” Jaren said, “I’m just showing her around.”

“Oh, a woman?” he said, the bandit flashing her a toothy smile, “Sorry, I couldn’t tell.”

Orba didn’t bother to respond back, the man saying, “You know, it’s not proper for womenfolk to cover themselves up in all that leather and steel. Why don’t you come over here and let me take that off.” A few of the others snickered at that.

Orba didn’t bother. She’d heard all that and worse before; they were just words, even as he got agitated and heightened his voice, “Huh? What’s the matter, scared of a wanted man? I could make you squeal my name. I bet you’d like that.”

“Give it a rest, Anker.” the leader snapped.

“Come on, I was just being funny.”

“We’ve all seen your idea of ‘fun’, and want no part of it.” He turned his attention back to Jaren, “Take your friends and get out of here. Tangling with the Thieve’s Guild is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Jaren uttered a quiet sigh of relief as he picked Hadvar up again, the trio and the bandits skirting around eachother with no small amount of tension. Anker blew a kiss at Orba as she passed, her hand tightening on the hilt of her sword, though outwardly she was like stone.

If she lost her temper over every creep that made her uncomfortable, she wouldn’t have had very much company on the dunes. It came with the territory.

Things were more quiet outside the village, the group coming upon a field of barley with several grazing horses, one of them hauling an empty wagon behind it, while the others were carrying vacant saddles and limp reigns. Despite the carnage around them, the abandoned beasts were more concerned with their midday meal than the strange humans surrounding them.

“There,” Hadvar said, “That cart can take us to Riverwood, can either of you handle a horse?”

“I can,” Jaren said, “I prefer to walk, but how hard can driving a cart be?”

The horse made no attempt to bolt as Jaren and Orba lifted Hadvar into the back, Orba joining the imperial while Jaren went to the front and took up the reigns.

“The divines truly have a sense of humor, to have me carried out on a cart made for prisoners.” Hadvar mused to himself, Orba remaining quiet. The horse was stubborn, but Jaren had it trotting down the road at fair speed once he remembered what to do. The cobblestone jostled the undead in a strange way, but Orba had an ironclad stomach and put it from her mind.

Orba’s hands neglected her sword as she took in her surroundings, the ruined city fading into the distance. She removed her helm, placed it on her lap, and gently settled her hands on it.

Forests of pine spanned in all directions as she looked around, her vision filled with more green than she could imagine. It stood against a sky so blue it looked like an ocean overhead, shafts of golden sunlight warming her face as the sun settled on the tall mountains in the distance. Amongst the trees, and around rivers of pure water, bees buzzed around plants and flowers of every shape and color, while the birds sung in the trees.

Elk, rabbits, and foxes were frolicking about, even a few wolves skulking by. It was nearly too much to take in, but Orba tried to ground herself a little. Her change of fortune was sudden, yes, but now that her humanity was restored she didn’t have to live so quickly. There was time to adjust to these surroundings and learn more about this place.

For the first time in her life, she saw a world of possibilities ahead of her. Perhaps even the promise of a good life; not just a feeble existence surviving off scraps, but a life of plenty and happiness, like an actual human. In a world so bright, the dark was already becoming a distant memory.


	3. Ancient Stones

The three day trip to Riverwood was uneventful. Though Hadvar was lethargic Orba believed a good meal and bedrest would get him back on his feet. He was confused to find himself in progressively better condition upon waking up each day, but not enough to search the cart.

Orba kept her eyes on the road as it turned to follow a long river to distract herself from her near empty Estus Flask. As they passed the junction Orba perked up; it was very faint, but she heard the unmistakable sound of a bonfire humming with Estus. She nearly missed Hadvar remarking , “Not much further now, just follow the river.”

His eyes were focused elsewhere as he said this, Orba following his gaze to a mountain range across the river where an eerie set of ruins dwelled in the shadow of a peak. It rested in such a way one would have to scale the entire mountain to reach it, but it was clearly visible to all passing through the valley. Quite a monument to be sure, though all she could see of it was a set of angular stone arches almost completely blackened with age and adorned with statues, “what are those arches?” She asked.

“Bleak Falls Barrow,” Hadvar said, “Our forefathers were honored with a ceremonial burial in tombs like that a long time ago. No-one really knows what’s up there anymore, but many suppose the ancient Nords buried great treasures with them. Gold, magical artifacts, arcane secrets of all kinds… but you mustn’t go up there, friend.” he warned, “A great number of those interned in those tombs turned into Draugr, though no-one can recall the reason. No-one who’s gone up that mountain has returned alive.”

“What in Chaos’ name is a Draugr?”

Hadvar shuttered, “They are like the aptrgangr, but different. They don’t return from the dead when killed, but they linger on forever. It’s like they’ve been frozen. Their skin is grey and frigid cold, and they have eyes like two blue flames. Dreadful things. As a child I had nightmares of them coming down in the night and snatching me away.” Hadvar drifted off, “Of course, that was before I grew older. The dead protect their territory using whatever strange enchantments they may have discovered, but just because they’re undead doesn’t mean they were serving dragons or hiding some great secret.”

Orba was quiet. There was no way their curse of undeath worked like hers, and from the sounds of it only those in the tombs were afflicted. Still, while their origins may be questionable, she couldn’t accept the Draugr were a random occurrence. Building massive monuments on the mountaintop, then arming them with a force of undying soldiers to keep watch, just to keep their eye on some gold and bodies? No, it didn’t make any sense. There was something in there, but at the same time it wasn’t really her problem. Let them keep their mountain.

After a brief trip they reached a wall of wooden pillars and bedrock, a sealed gate barring their path. Hadvar wiggled over to Jaren and quietly said, “It’s alright, they’ll let me in. Just- please don’t mention you’re with the Thieves Guild, I don’t want to explain anything to my uncle.”

“Don’t worry, it’s my job to be discreet.” Jaren replied with a thumbs up.

Orba could tell this wall was the border of the village, though the placement was a little confusing to her. It ran from the base of the mountain on her right to the rushing river to her left, with a wooden ramp leading to a narrow island in the river. But there was no wall on the island, or if there was it’d fallen into the river and been swept away.

Then again, the water rushing on either side of the rock had fair speed, meaning anyone who tried to jump in and swim across would risk drowning. Atop the border wall was a rough parapet where a few guards were patrolling, the figures shaded by a thatched roof to keep the rain off. One of them spotted the trio.

“Who goes there?” he called, leaning over the cobblestone wall.

Hadvar struggled off the cart and called back, “It’s Hadvar, and my two companions.”

“The blacksmith’s nephew?” he called back happily, “It’s good to see you back home, tell me, have you any news from Helgen? We saw a terrible plume of smoke drifting from those parts, and some claim to have seen a dragon flying over the mountains. It would set us at ease to know the truth.”

Hadvar hung his head, “Yes, but the news I bear is very grim. A- Helgen was attacked while we were trying to execute Ulfric Stormcloak and a band of rebels. There’s nothing left, I barely escaped with my life.”

“Are there other survivors?” he called desperately, the other guards coming over to investigate, “I have family there.”

Hadvar shook his head, “I’m very sorry. I don’t know how many escaped, but they were few.”

The guard hung his head, but he shook off the other’s trying to comfort him and just said, “Understood.” His voice was very low and somber, but he spoke clearly, “this news will be passed to the rest of the Hold to ensure the security of the realm. You may enter, but please keep this knowledge between us. We don’t need the public alarmed by this threat. Also,” he added, “If you’ve the power, bring word directly to the Jarl. As a soldier of the Legion you have a fair chance of convincing him to send reinforcements this way, as a precaution. There will be time to grieve when the roads are secured.”

“I will do what I can,” Hadvar said, “Riverwood is my home too.”

“Gods be with you. And you can leave your horse, we’ll get her to the stables.” He replied. The gatekeeper opened the door from within, Orba and Jaren following Hadvar into the sleepy village. All the dwellings and stores were logs set on bedrock foundations like the gate, the settlement drawing all its resources from around the river. From what Orba could see on the long cobblestone road, Riverwood wasn’t quite large enough to be a city like Helgen, but was larger than a standard commune.

A few people were about with baskets and bags or hauling wooden carts filled with goods, but most of the people she saw were leisurely killing time. A boy was playing with his dog, who was missing half his tail; an old crone was on her porch complaining about the weather, and a couple young men were arguing over a woman.

Despite this, everything sounded muted. Even the river was quiet, though not in the same eerie way Helgen was. With any luck it would remain that way.

Hadvar approached a blacksmith’s shop; where a long row of weapon racks lined the wall of the longhouse and a trail of smoke simmered from the forge and curled through the enclosed balcony. The difference between this and the one in Helgen was a man with a scraggly yellow beard and hair who was huddled over a stone table full of tools, a black apron shielding the front of his red shirt from the cinders. Below his hulking form was a little girl with her hair tied back and an outfit that resembled -what Orba presumed was- her father’s. The blacksmith fussed with his girl’s hand, gently nudging it to the side, “Not there,” he said as she hammered a rivet down, “If you come at it too steep, it won’t flatten. You’ll leave a gap at one side.”

“I know papa!” she said as she filled the air with the tinny sounds of a hammer too heavy for her little arms.

“Uncle!” Hadvar called, catching the two’s attention.

“Papa, cousin Hadvar is back!” The girl excitedly dropped the tool and wiggled from her seat.

“I suppose that’s enough forging for today.” The blacksmith laughed heartily as he got up from his rest. He wiped his sweaty face with a rag as he went to meet his nephew, “Hadvar, are you on leave already-” he trailed off when he saw Hadvar’s disheveled state, “Shor’s Bones, are you in some kind of trouble? Your armor’s in tatters, and you look like you haven't slept in days. And who are these strangers?”

“Uncle,” Hadvar said as he climbed the stairs to meet him. He leaned in close and lowered his voice, “I don’t want to startle anyone, but there was a battle in Helgen. These companions pulled me out of the rubble, I owe them my life.”

“A battle in Helgen?” he exclaimed, “By Ysmir, come inside, all of you.” He brought the group to the front door of his home and let them in. The first thing Orba spotted across from her was a great hearth with a large head of elk mounted over it. Shadows flickered above them as the fires blazed, while the step surrounding it was decorated with an array of steaming pots and pans.

The Blacksmith’s eyes went to an occupied table at his left, “Sigrid, Hadvar has come to visit!” he called to a petite woman with light brown hair.

She brightened, “Hadvar! We’ve been so worried about you, and you brought company! Sit down, all of you.” The Blacksmith sat by Sigrid while their daughter, Hadvar, Jaren, and Orba sat around the table across from them. Orba swept the back of her hand over her mouth to hide the fact she was drooling over the fresh meat while Sigrid spoke again, “I was just about to go outside and tell you two to come in, working at the forge all day,” she scoffed.

The uncle raised his hand, “Yes, wife, I was surprised as well. But please, right now the only one that needs to be speaking is Hadvar. He’s brought bad news from Helgen; Go on, boy.”

“Well,” Hadvar mumbled, “I was accompanying General Tullius and his guards.”

“Tullius?” Hadvar’s uncle exclaimed, “The military general?”

“Yes, uncle. Tullius tracked Ulfric Stormcloak himself to the border of The Pale, just north of Rorikstead. He had only a small scouting force with him, and Tullius managed to set up a brilliant ambush. We’ve tried many times to capture Ulfric but he always seemed to slip through our fingers. This time he didn’t know what hit him; it was a hard fight but we subdued the Jarl. Tullius sent word ahead to Cyrodiil where a formal trial and execution were to take place, but somewhere around Lake Ilinalta we received a message from the Thalmor.”

“Meddling elves,” the blacksmith grumbled, “What did they say?”

“I don’t know. I was just guarding the convoy and reading names but whatever it was drove Tullius into a rage. He tore up the plans and took a detour to Helgen. Everyone we captured, including Ulfric Stormcloak, were to be beheaded immediately. It’s so strange. Tullius is one of the most tactful men I know, it’s not like him to cancel such an important trial.”

“Did you see the elves at Helgen?”

“Yes, but by the time they arrived the execution was already underway and I had duties to uphold. I do know that afterward Tullius was practically whipping the executioner. He couldn’t put Ulfric to death fast enough.”

“That is strange,” The blacksmith replied, “Is that what happened? Did a fight break out between the Thalmor and Legion?”

Hadvar was very pale as he said, “Well... I told the gatekeeper the Stormcloaks raided the execution, yes.”

His uncle narrowed his eyes, “Well, is it true?”

“Uncle,” Hadvar said as he pulled at his collar, cold sweat rolling down his cheeks, “No, it isn’t. But I don’t think anyone would believe what we really saw.”

The blacksmith was alarmed at this, “What could be worse than the Thalmor or the Stormcloaks to warrant this secrecy?”

“A dragon.” Jaren offered.

The blacksmith laughed nervously, “Yes, a dragon! That would do it.” His laughter died as turned from Hadvar to Jaren and saw their humorless expressions. He turned to Orba, “Remove your helmet.”

Orba did so and brushed her wild, matted hair from her face as she placed the iron helm to the side. The blacksmith continued, “Now, tell me, and be honest, did you see a dragon too?”

Orba worked up her courage to mumble, “No, I arrived after Jaren and Hadvar, but it couldn’t be anything else. Everything was destroyed; Stormcloaks, Civilians, even the stone towers. No man can destroy a city so completely.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the blacksmith questioned.

The undead woman came up with a lie as fast as she could, “I’m visiting from Northern High Rock. I was just crossing the border when I came to Helgen, though the only thing left was a smoldering ruin. I met Jaren by the bonfire and we went out in search of survivors.”

“And for that, I owe you a great debt,” he nodded, “Not to pry, but isn’t the border of High Rock all the way in Haafingar? That’s a long trip for a young woman to make alone.”

Orba stumbled, I don’t have a shiteing clue where anything is around here, “I took the long way to Helgen to see the sights. I plan to stay here for at least a few years, so I wanted to familiarize myself with the environment.”

“Ah, an adventurer.” he said, satisfied, “We get those from time to time. You know, when I began forging blades in my youth I considered going out and finding lost treasures out there myself. Of course, I gained responsibilities and learned to be content right here.”

Sigrid smiled as she ran her hand down his thigh, “He took an arrow called Sigrid to the knee.”

“I certainly did,” he laughed, but the jollity of his tone quickly faded, “… By Ysmir, if there really is a dragon about then we are all in grave danger.”

“Hadvar is going to Whiterun to request extra manpower here,” Jaren said, “There will be bows, catapults, wolfhounds. It’ll be like a fox hunt of royalty, a real fine time.”

“I’ll definitely rest easier knowing the Jarl’s watchful eye is on us,” the uncle replied.

Orba glanced at Jaren. His facade was flawless, as he was a very practiced liar, but Orba could tell what was running through his head. Afterall, he saw Helgen just as she did.

The little girl hawked over Hadvar, “Hadvar, did you really see a dragon? What did it look like? Did it have big teeth?”

“Hush child.” Her mother snapped.

“Don’t fret, Dorthe,” The blacksmith comforted, “your mother is just worried about you. Where are my manners?” he directed to Orba and Jaren, “This is Dorthe, my daughter. My wife Sigrid, and I am Alvor. Please, rest here as long as you wish while Hadvar prepares for his trip to Whiterun. Do you plan to accompany him?”

“I am,” Jaren said, “I need to return to Riften before my friends miss me. How about you, Orba?”

“I have nowhere else to be,” she shrugged, “Maybe the Jarl will reward me for the trouble, and I can start establishing myself here.”

“Good,” Sigrid said, “Either way, let’s stop fretting and enjoy the meal.”

Orba watched everyone else eat a moment while her eyes scanned all the plates on the table. She was still tormented by all the scents assailing her as she removed her gloves and wiped her hands off on her sleeve. There were puffy white loaves of sliced bread, seared vegetables, gathered berries and juicy fruits, and heaps of meats. It was more food than she could eat, and she hadn’t eaten a full and proper meal in years. She finally couldn’t take it and snatched a hunk of venison steak, taking a large bite out of it and feeling a rush run through her body.

The meat was perfectly salted and juicy, the blood gushing over her tongue. Orba found herself ripping through it, her teeth clicking as she gnawed all the seasoning and tendons off the bone with the vigor of a wild mongrel. Meat tasted amazing without being putrefied in the sun and infested with maggots, though she couldn’t help the fact she couldn’t drag an icebox behind her everywhere. Or that most everything was dead, that as well.

She licked her lips and took a nice slice of bread, smearing a thick dollop of fresh butter upon it and crushing it in her fingers to chew it all up. She put even more on the next slice since it’d been so long- in fact, when was the last time she’d had butter? Soon she was dismembering everything she could fit on her plate. If she went on to remember the restoration of her Humanity in the new world as the happiest moment of her life, this meal was likely going to be second as she gulped some tart meade and hiccuped.

She noticed Dorthe was staring at her and stifling a giggle while the rest were giving her assorted looks, “Excuse me.” Orba grumbled.

“Oh,” Alvor exclaimed, “It’s quite alright, I’m just glad you enjoy my wife’s cooking.”

“I’ll say.” Sigrid added wryly, “You act like you haven't eaten anything in weeks, chomping down everything like a sabrecat. It’s a wonder you can even taste it.”

Orba prickled but held her tongue. She was going to have a full stomach and a good taste in her mouth for once so provoking her host wasn’t worth the bother. Orba continued her meal in relative silence, aware of Sigrid’s eyes on her as she went.

“So,” she said, “You’ve been adventuring across Skyrim?”

“Yes?”

“You certainly look it,” Sigrid said, “I just hope my daughter isn’t inspired to follow you all the way to Whiterun. I love my husband but it’s unbecoming of her to be all covered with soot and cinders, let alone trying her hand at a blade.”

“Maybe she’ll surprise you,” Orba said, “I was practically born with a sword in my hand. Knowing how to protect yourself is the only sure way out of trouble.”

Dorthe cooed with wonder, Sigrid’s gaze narrowing at Orba, “The only sure way out of danger is to not get into it in the first place,” Sigrid said, “I suppose you wanderlusting types wouldn’t realize that.”

Orba took a deep breath, “Are you going to sit there and hurl insults at me ‘till I’m deaf and dumb, or are you planning to eventually tell me what the bother is?”

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Alvor said, raising his hand.

“No,” Orba spat, “If she wants to tell me something to my face, let her.”

“I just wonder something,” Sigrid said, “How does a young woman as pretty as yourself take care without a home or worthwhile occupation?”

“I find what I need where I can find it,” Orba said, “I’m above banditry, if that’s your concern.”

“Heaven’s no,” she said, “In fact you seem the type who sells herself for honest pay.”

“That’s my intention,” Orba said, “there’s a fair demand for swordsmen in these parts.”

“Are those all the skills you’ve offered?” Sigrid said, “Of course I couldn’t blame any desperation a ratty vagrant like you may have.”

There was silence for several moments.

“Well,” Jaren said, “That’s one way to say it.”

The back of Orba’s head was tingling as she grabbed her armor and stood up.

“Come now,” Alvor called, “I’m sure she meant no offense.”

“Fuck you, and your vacuous, bedswerving, gnashgabbing bint.”

“What’s a gnashgab?” Dorthe asked confusedly,

“Your mother, apparently.”

Orba slammed the door behind her before anyone could figure out what she even said. She didn’t understand why she was so angry, but something in the way Sigrid said it rubbed her the wrong way. Me, a whore? Bugger her with a rusty pipe, she’s a whore.

Orba took to pacing around town, enjoying the exercise and measuring her breathing. She was surprised to see the sky turning red already as the sun crept behind the mountains, placing the whole town in a growing shadow. She must have neglected how late it was getting with everything else occupying her attentions, though it was probably late by the time they got to Riverwood anyway.

Why was she so angry? She liked to believe she had a lot of reasons to be angry, and over time developed all her little ways of holding it down, but something in that woman- it just cut her right down to the core. But what was it? Why was it? Orba had been around for a terribly long time and knew humanity wasn’t always the most rational… but still, she felt the answer was dangling right between her eyes but she just couldn’t catch it.

After drifting off, time dying in her frenzied mind, Orba was snapped awake by a sudden noise. The undead ran around the corner, seeing several articles strewn around the street where they were knocked from someone’s hands- she realized that someone was Hadvar, who was currently fighting off a fair-haired assailant in leathers draped in blue. They weren't quiet either, the stranger shouting “Where’s your list now, dog!” as he threw the already injured Hadvar down and pummeled him against a fence,

“Unhand me, traitor!” Hadvar gasped through the battering he was receiving,

“You are the traitor, dog of the Empire!”

Orba’s body moved of its own accord, her instincts giving everything an icy clarity as her steel grip locked on the attacker’s shoulder and threw him aside. This she was familiar with.

“Yield, before you hurt yourself.” Orba spoke with deceptive calm.

The stranger in blue swept the blond hair from his face, “Are you with him?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Ralof, proud Son of Skyrim!” he spat, “We lived together, laughed together, but he chose the wrong side of this war and tried to take my head for his elven overlords. I bet he didn’t expect me to make it back with the aid of Ulfric Stormcloak, the True High King!”

Hadvar sat up, wiping the blood off his face, “Can’t you hear yourself? We’ve known eachother since we were knee high for Aetherius’ sake. Ulfric is tearing this province- this country- apart, ending him as swiftly as possible was the surest way to put an end to this war. It was agonizing to sentence you alongside him, but I had a duty to uphold.”

“Duty?” Ralof exclaimed, “We’re fighting for the freedom of the Nord people- our people- for Talos and for Skyrim. What greater duty is there? The Empire is corrupt and weak. They couldn’t protect themselves from the elves, and Skyrim pays for it. Everyday they sit in their ivory tower passing laws to subjugate us with taxes and restrictions. The Thalmor drag our families off to their fortresses at their leisure and the guards don’t even bat an eye. Where is the justice for my cousins, for those who honor our ancestors? The elves envy the strength of the Nords; they are ashamed by their utter defeat at the hands of Ysgramor and the vast wealth of our culture, so they want to drag us into the muck with them. Ulfric speaks the truth. It is time to return to our roots, throw off the yoke of the Empire, and banish the rotten elves from the land, let Cyrodiil have them. I can’t understand why you, one of the most loyal men I know, continue to execute the will of our enemies and put your brethren to the sword.”

“This isn’t the way.” Hadvar said, “If we don’t stop this, Skyrim will destroy itself long before the Thalmor do it for us. We need to stand together now more than ever, not slay our own brothers for Kynareth’s sake.”

“Spoken like an Imperial,” Ralof retorted, “You call yourself a Nord, but a Nord would never turn against their kin to please the elves, our enemy since the dawn times. Compromise will be the death of us all, that is why i will not.” He said as he drew his blade, “I’m going to finish what you started in Helgen, with my own two hands, and for myself.”

Orba stepped in front of him, hand on her sword, “Take a bastarding look around you. You want to do this in the middle of town? Lower that blade before you get hurt.”

“Another whore of the Empire?”

“You know, I’m getting sick of hearing that word today,” Orba growled, “No. Stormcloak, Imperial, I don’t rightly care. I’m pinning your throat under my knee on principle.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try.”

“I’d like to indulge you.”

Ralof faltered a little, Orba’s eyes like cobalt arrows glinting beneath her helm, but that didn’t dissuade him from coming at her. The undead braced her feet and leveled her sword confidently, his every step, every sway of his weight speaking to her.

His first strike was an overhead- direct and overdrawn- a quick clockwise parry brushed it aside while Orba stepped in. Her armored helm bashed the unprepared man’s bare head, his momentum too much for him to pull back in time. Ralof scrambled back from the hit and threw his sword out to defend himself from Orba’s surge forward, but she brushed that off with equal ease and brought the tip of her sword to bear with a circular swish.

The undead swordsman didn’t aim for any killing or even crippling blows, but drove him back with machine-like efficiency as he desperately tried to ward her advance, but nothing could pierce her defense as she stayed just far enough away to keep their swords from getting tangled. Orba quickly realized the incredible disparity in their skill, and was grateful as she leveraged his sword around and hooked his quillon with the tip of her own blade.

All it took was a firm and abrupt pull to pry the hilt from his hands and send the sword skyward. The disarmed Ralof gazed at her with panic, and then shock as she calmly discarded her own sword. It emboldened him to strike, but that proved a fatal error as Orba stepped around and grappled him.

The undead rolled her back and shoulders to flip him onto the ground; she dropped herself to pin his throat under her knee while she locked his arm with her hands. He struggled, but with his elbow bent to the point of nearly, but not quite, breaking and the pressure on his neck he was rendered helpless.

“Fine work, Orba,” Hadvar exclaimed, “By the eight, you may be a match for Vilkas!”

“I don’t know who that is.” Orba grumbled as the guards stormed onto the scene,

“Cease your hostility, all of you!” Orba let Ralof go, the guards’ posture changing when they saw his colors, “Well well,” He grabbed the rebel under the shoulder roughly, “I ought to beat you to an inch of your life, then burn you on a spit! It’s the least you deserve after what you people did to Helgen… but no, we’re not animals. We’re men. Your trial will be swift, but there will be a trial nonetheless.” He turned to Orba, “Thanks for giving him a good whack before we got here. I say it would’ve been better had you run him through, but humiliating one of Ulfric’s lackeys will do fine.”

“The pleasure was mine.” Orba deadpanned as they took Ralof, grumbling and growling, away. The undead turned to Hadvar, “You alright?”

“Yes, just bruises.” He said, “That’s twice now. I was just getting supplies for the trip to Whiterun when Ralof caught up to me. I guess, somewhere deep down, I knew he survived like I did. He was always the tougher of the two of us, you know. He would have surely killed me had you not been here.”

The back of Orba’s head was throbbing as Hadvar collected his things, “Orba, I hope you’re not still upset about earlier. My aunt is just- Orba?”

Orba walked away.

 

* * *

 

Orba had trouble taking her eyes off the sky above to watch the road. When the moon disappeared the night became a void of utter blackness every time the dying sun shambled below the horizon. Now there were two dark suns hanging just over the mountains; a small grey one drifting near a massive one the color of rust. Surrounding the two bodies was a stunning array of stars and auroras- something that’d been lost around when Gwyn died according to the Way of White, though any claim by the bastard clerics was dubious at best.

Every shade of the rainbow flickered overhead in waves of light. Orba wondered if this was the soul of the world and who it could belong to. The undead listened out as she followed the road to Helgen, eventually hearing the bonfire and finding a trail obscured by tall grasses and low branches. Only the faintest hints of stonework remained under the dirt, Orba hurriedly pushing her way through the weeds until she traced her way to a grove by the river’s edge.

Orba grasped the hilt of her sword and moved forward more cautiously as she crept through the gap in the bushes towards the source of the unmistakable hum, but heard no-one. She released a long sigh as she pushed through the trees and beheld the coiled sword spearing its little mound of bones. The light of the crackling fire cast a shade of sunburst across the carved platform, Orba’s eye directed to an opening in the trees; the great lake in the distance beyond flickered under the night sky, the leaves around the opening seeming an autumn red as they gently swayed in the wind waking through the gulleys beyond her perch.

As the undead stepped over several treeroots to sit with her back to the cliff she watched glowing white signatures fade in and out around the bonfire. She couldn’t linger for too long. If one of the scouts came back they only needed a few uninterrupted moments to call the entire group back to defend their position.

Until then, as she sat down and let the warmth bathe her face, she felt herself relax for the first time since her humanity was restored. She looked around curiously as she drew her Estus Flask and held it top-down over the flames. Her rest was warded by three oblong pillars that seemed mysteriously intact compared to the ground they sat upon.

They were capped with iron, and under a few spiral carvings was a smooth borehole braced with similar engraved metal. Below the piercing was a carving with a web of perforations within, an observation that led Orba to believe the shrine was dedicated to the stars above them and each of these was a constellation. One was a shadowy warrior in leather with a dagger- graceful and poised to strike as he ran toward his target with his cape billowing behind him. One was a sorcerer in robes, his arms raised as he conjured some mighty force with his catalyst in-hand. The last was a warrior in rugged armor, his shield over his shoulder while he faced forward with his axe, ready for battle.

Orba’s flask was filled to the brim, hot and glowing brightly for once. The undead reflected on her surroundings as she put the flask away and removed her helm to gaze into the flames while the world turned. It was bittersweet to have ruins like these to herself, always wondering who made these and why they were gone. There had to be a time this place was visited by all comers, but whether through a lack of belief or just being forgotten, at some point they were left to the mercy of time with no-one to look on.

How fitting lost and forgotten people would find refuge in lost and forgotten places.

A rustling in the trees ahead made Orba take to her feet and draw her sword, but she recognized Jaren’s scaley hide as he emerged. Somehow she wasn’t surprised he found this place himself as she lowered her weapon, “You frightened me.”

“I thought I’d find you here,” Jaren said with his usual nonchalance, “So, you parted on a swimming note.”

“So what if I did?”

“Just observing,” Jaren said as he settled down across from her, Orba returning to rest while he continued, “You strike me as, well, a lot like me.”

“A mouthy lizard?”

“I don’t think you have quite the look for scales,” he said, “I mean a woman who speaks her mind first, and doesn’t take insult without a barbed retort in mind.”

Orba huddled up by the flames, letting them warm her face, “Does that surprise you?”

“Just a little,” he said, “I saw the state you were in when you got to Helgen. I know you’ve gone through hard times and you likely spent a lot of time alone. It’s not easy being foreign around here. You’re going to find a lot of things are different than what you may be used to, but it’s not your fault.”

Orba was quiet. She had so many venomous things churning in her mind, but what came out was, “It’s happening all over again. I left my world behind so I could lead a peaceful life, in a peaceful world. But there's been nothing but strife since I got here. Everything is so lush and full of life, but nothing’s changed. Entire cities are being destroyed by monsters, intolerance and hate rule the day, and brothers are spilling their blood in the streets. I don’t understand why this keeps happening to me.”

“You can’t help bad timing.” Jaren said, “Ulfric’s golden tongue has been hard at work convincing the masses only hot-blooded, ‘true’ Nords should live here. Between the refugees from Morrowind, the Argonians, Khajiit, and Mer who just want to make a living, and the Nords who support them, you can see how that causes a lot of hurt feelings. And for the record I despise the Thalmor,” He added, “The Stormcloaks seem to forget the Thalmor have butchered as many mer as they have Nords; the Aldmeri Dominion have a lot more enemies than they think. The point is people are very defensive these days, so I don’t think there’s anywhere you’re not going to be noticed.” Jaren said, “Skyrim is a tough place to live, but it’s home sweet home. I couldn’t imagine going anywhere else, especially since we need more good people.”

“You’re tolerable at best.” Orba smirked.

“And here we go, with you being mean to me just because you can.” Jaren threw his head back, “Me? No, you’re the spitting image of Sapphire. The only time she’s ever smiled in her life is when I delivered a note from her father and got her and her uncle talking to eachother. But you know, she’s not a bad person for it, just someone with a lot of hurt inside.”

“That I can understand,” Orba said, drifting off as she gazed at the fire, “I never knew my family. I haven't seen them since I turned, and that was a long time ago. Even before I died all I remember is that I burdened them. I often wonder if that’s what claimed me. There’s not a lot of food or fresh water in a barren world, afterall. Maybe I starved, maybe-” Orba couldn’t bring herself to finish that thought, at least outwardly.

Jaren stared at her, “that’s horrifying.”

“It’s alright,” Orba said. She wondered if she was sitting too close to the fire, as her eyes were getting misty, “That’s the past, I’m here now.”

Several quiet moments passed as the two reflected on things known only to them. Jaren said, “You know, this isn’t a very secure place to put your main rally point. Anyone with good hearing could hear that- wooooo wibble wooooo wibble woooo.”

“I’m sure. Bonfires are easy to find on purpose. If a group can’t go any further, someone else could rest where they left off and have a point to return to.”

“Aren't you afraid someone will… disturb the bones or something?” He said as he nudged a rib with his boot.

“They could certainly try.” Orba said, “If bonfires were that easy to destroy you wouldn't find the bloody things everywhere. Go ahead, just try and draw the coiled sword.”

Jaren got up and eased his hand towards the blade, the fires ignoring him as he dipped in and out and tapped the decayed hilt of the Coiled Sword with no visible damage. Presuming it was safe, he put his hands firmly around the hilt and pulled. The fire flared like kerosene being poured on it, cinders violently peeling off the sword as it turned white hot and hissed in the cool twilight air.

“Oww oww oww oww-” Jaren danced, blowing on his steaming reptilian hands while Orba laughed aloud, “That was a terrible idea, damn that smarts.”

“Just put them by the fire, the Estus will heal you.”

“Don’t worry, the Hist already has.” When he showed his palms the blistered skin was already falling off, the raw skin beneath squelching as it thickened into leather before her eyes.

“That’s a neat trick,” Orba said, “I guess what they say about lizards regrowing their tail is true.”

“Now that’s racist,” Jaren said, “Just because I can heal very fast doesn’t mean you can discriminate against the pain I feel getting burned by things from the pain your kind feels when they bruise their soft, dainty pink skin.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Orba said as she got up, “We should go before we get any more unwelcome visitors. Is there somewhere in town I can stay?”

“I’m sure Delphine can spare a room in the Sleeping Giant Inn, I’ll cover your fare for the night.”

“Yes.” she mumbled, “And, um, thank you.”


	4. Whiterun

It took days to cross from Riverwood to the hold capitol in the borrowed prisoner’s cart, yet all Orba could think of during the long transit was grass as she felt the breeze in her ragged hair. Whiterun Hold seemed nothing but an endless sea of gently swaying golden grass as the mid-autumn wind drifted across. The widely spaced farmhouses set on their furrowed pastures resembled boats climbing waves as beasts of burden were fattening up for the winter or dragging plows and tools behind them.

Aside from the mountains rimming the basin, and the passing of days, there was barely anything to watch or listen to beyond the insects noisily chirping after dark and the rustling of tall grass in the breeze. The people they passed took little note of them as they followed the single ruddy line of grey cutting through the grassy fields.

Orba appreciated the land for what it was, grateful it wasn’t sand. Cold sand was something she could go another lifetime without; it buried and chewed away at everything, and climbing tall dunes was a pain. Every step had the sifting rubble falling away in waves; one slip and you fell all the way to the base. The undead woman broke herself from the philosophical musings of geography as she finally sighted the capitol in the distance.

It was impossible to miss the massive wooden mansion presiding over the surrounding grasslands from atop the cliff, an equally great stone eagle holding vigil at its feet. If she remembered Hadvar correctly that eagle was Skyforge, where the Companions dwelled in Jorrvaskr, and the river curling around the front was the White River, namesake of the city.

She tried to pay attention when Hadvar spoke, but it was hard to retain all of Whiterun’s history from just his accounts. Still, she could appreciate the fact it was one of the oldest human cities still standing and one of the few hosting direct descendants of the Five Hundred--and by extension Lord Ysgramor.

Orba didn’t know how she felt about the Nords just yet, but she wondered if all of Tamriel had such a rich history. It would explain why their ego preceded them. Granted, her own world was plenty storied and shrouded in myth… but very little was left behind.

Orba felt disquieted by how often she had these thoughts. Her life was long and filled with incredible hardship, and she adapted accordingly. It came as no surprise she would assume the worst, even amidst kinder circumstances, but there were plenty of harsh truths to validate the feeling this world was only utopia on the outside.

A civil war, a dragon attack, an entire city in ruins, a country divided by intrigues and sabotage. But it wasn’t just the country out of sorts, it was herself. Everything about the timing of her arrival and the circumstances surrounding it were nothing short of miraculous. She was spared by _something_ when she finally chose to give up, and that same something dropped her clear on the other side of Skyrim, in Helgen, just in time to be given perhaps the only Humanity in the world and be set on the path to Whiterun.

It seemed the lords were alive and well here, but _why_ would one of them waste their time on a lone, insignificant hollow with nothing to her name and neither fellows nor family at her side? She was grateful to this nameless thing, certainly, but it didn’t make any sense.

She was distracted by Jaren, the undead looking back at him as he repeated. "Orba, are you alright?”

“Yes. Just thinking.”

“You seem a little bothered,” Jaren said as Hadvar brought them over a bridge and towards the dilapidated defensive wall of Whiterun. "Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I’m fine,” Orba said. She turned back towards the grasslands. "...Do you ever take a moment to wonder why you’re still alive? Why you bother with it?”

“Not really,” He said. "I’ve had good luck with people since I was little, save for losing my parents to who-knows-what before I could open my eyes. When I was on the streets my childhood friend, Brynjolf, took good care of me. The two of us got into so much trouble,” he snickered. "Gallus was a second father to both of us; he’s the one that brought us into the Guild, and since then I’ve just lived one day at a time. I’m a simple man. I see something shiny, I set out to make it mine, and then I do it again. It’s not especially glorious, but it’s enough for me.”

“I wish I could live so carelessly,” Orba said. "That’s the worst part-” she glanced at Hadvar and cut herself off, realizing what she almost did. "Well, at least the lords give us only one life. If we had more it would be terribly frightening.”

“Why is that?”

“Because with each death you would only become more afraid to die, and more hurt by the deaths of others,” Orba said. "How could anyone enjoy a never-ending, painful existence in which they are always afraid? Ruination and death are things no-one deserves, but it seems everywhere I go that’s all I find. I just wish that, for once, everyone would just appreciate all they have.”

“It’s good you say that.”

“What, that I’m afraid?”

“That you actually give a damn about the well being of other people. For all the honor and glory people claim to strive for, there’s very few who would do the right thing for the sake of doing it. Live for that.”

Orba sighed. "You’re sickeningly optimistic.”

“And you’re a sourpuss. Honestly, I’m getting depression just sitting across from you.”

“I cannot believe you just called me a sourpuss,” Orba looked skyward. "You’re such a child.”

“It’s worked for me so far,” Jaren said as he vaulted off the cart. Hadvar watched Orba get off to follow Jaren, the undead donning her helm while the legionary gently nudged the horse towards the stables across the river. Orba was still fussing with the scarf covering her Darksign when she caught up to Jaren at a camp outside the city gates. She found the occupants lounging around the tents were not what she expected.

They had the body of a man but the head of a cat, and were covered with thick fur of varying colors and patterns, including their clawed hands. She wanted this to be shocking, but since the first man she met was a lizard she assumed anything was possible at this point.

Jaren approached a grey cat sitting cross-legged on a cozy green carpet with an array of wares set in a circle around him; everything from kitchen knives to pans, mirrors, spice, and tonics in labeled glass bottles. He wore a quilted brown vest with a grey undershirt, though he also had a layer of ashen fur covering his neck and face with a thicker mane forming the illusion of human hair and muttonchop sideburns.

His narrow gold eyes appraised the knapsack Jaren handed him. “This one believed you dead, with what people say of Helgen as they pass.” The cat noted in a raspy, sly voice.

“I love you too, Ri’saad,” Jaren replied. "I’m a little busy right now; make sure that bag gets to the Guild for me and you’ll have double your normal share, alright?”

“This one would never betray the trust of Ri’saad’s most valuable customer.” His slit eyes moved to Orba. She assumed he was just as human as Jaren, but it still made her skin crawl. “This one does not recognize your traveling companion. Does Brynjolf have you training initiates now?”

“No,” Jaren said. "She’s a… tourist.”

“A tourist?” he echoed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, this one is Ri’saad. If you are a friend of Jaren, then Ri’saad is happy to be friend also. You buy, yes?”

“Can’t,” Orba said. “My pockets are empty, that’s why I’m here for mercenary work.”

“Ah,” he said. "This one advises you take a gift, to alleviate the stress-”

“She isn’t here for Skooma, Ri’saad,” Jaren said politely.

“What is Skooma and why don’t I want it?” Orba scoffed.

“‘What is Skooma’ this one asks,” Ri’saad cocked his head in confusion. “Where do you hail from that doesn’t know of the sugar?”

“ _Very_ far away,” Orba said.

“Skooma is a narcotic, and a damn potent one,” Jaren explained. “One minute, you’re seeing sound and feeling colors; the next you feel like your body is pillows… but take one whiff and you’ll never want to stop.”

Ri’saad sighed. "Why do you do this? Ri’saad doesn’t encourage ones to buy better locks.”

“I’m just giving fair warning,” Jaren shrugged. “She can smoke a whole cauldron of Skooma if she wants, but I’m just saying.”

“I’ll think about it.” Orba said politely. "It wouldn’t be the first time I poisoned myself with something.”

“Ri’saad will be here when you decide,” he said as they departed. "May your road lead you to warm sands.”

Orba and Jaren found Hadvar already waiting for them to finish their business on the road nearby. He had an especially disapproving look towards Jaren, but said nothing as the triad reunited and headed through the city gates. As they followed the gauntlet around the mountain, Orba found herself sizing up the defenses of the city and noting how slipshod they were.

At one point the city would’ve been a veritable fortress; with the terrain too steep and too high to siege with conventional weaponry and the only path looping through multiple gatehouses, pits, and batteries to stem attackers. But even the strongest defenses needed diligent maintenance to sustain, and it was clear Whiterun did not value the task. The walls were addled with mold and vines, causing multiple segments to either collapse completely or become dangerously unstable. Some of the collapsed walls exposed paths _behind_ the batteries, allowing them to be bypassed outright and pissing away any advantage they may have had.

There was more wood than rock in some areas, with plank walkways and parapets holding the line together like a soldier’s crippled arms and legs being splinted and bolted back together to give the illusion of sturdiness. The last drawbridge was left down as not to inconvenience them, without a soul posted to even monitor the entrants. It wasn’t her business, but seeing them so content in their peace they would just allow this to happen baffled her.

They finally came across the front gate, the door held by a pair of guards. They were turning a group of dark-skinned warriors in eastern attire away. “You are harboring a traitor and a criminal!” Their leader proclaimed. “You will hear from us again.”

“Be gone with you,” the guard snapped back. “We’ve lost contact with one of Falkreath’s border cities and nobody seems to know what’s going on. One of you already started trouble for us, so no means no. Now get out of my sight before I have you detained.”

Orba was concerned their group would also be turned away as the red-skinned men passed, but upon seeing them the guard brightened up. "Jaren! Good to see you made it out of Helgen in one piece, what with all the worrying news from those parts. Why are you dragging that imperial around with you?”

“A survivor from Helgen,” Jaren replied. “I- I don’t want to be morbid, but I hope you didn’t have anyone important staying there.”

The guard's voice fell. "Shor’s bones, these are very unhappy tidings. Can you straighten out what happened?”

Jaren cut Hadvar off. "It’s hard to explain. Riverwood asked we bring Hadvar to the Jarl so he could ask for reinforcements and let Balgruuf know what he saw. Somewhere close to those parts is Ulfric Stormcloak, and the thing that destroyed Helgen. Being a small village, they’re very afraid.”

“Yes, of course!” He exclaimed as he unlocked the gate for them. As they went through, the guard added. "I wish you all luck. Balgruuf is in a terrible mood today, and I don’t believe an emissary of the empire will help matters.”

The door closed on that parting note, Orba turning her attention to the city as they proceeded over a bridge. The undead peeked over the edge, finding a large irrigation ditch stretching up the hill and beyond a wall that divided the city in two, a steady flow of water running down. She wondered how the water got up there in the first place, but assumed a natural spring welling from deep beneath the mountain was to blame.

It was hard to walk straight with all the sights and sounds around her, the undead’s eyes tracing the city with childlike wonder. Multiple terraces were carved out of the uneven ground to support the large wooden structures, but there were still multiple paths that rose and twisted up the hill with exposed foundations beside them. It gave Whiterun a good deal of verticality; in fact the buildings looming over the lower mainstreet bore the strong motiff of dragons in flight.

The residences were built of robust wooden pillars with finer planks between them and ended in a tall, steeply peaked roof adorned with a dragon head. Unlike Riverwood every building had proper shingles a shade between tan and yellow, and each tile was cut in an oblong shape and layered in the semblance of a scaly coat.

In fact, didn’t Hadvar call the Jarl’s palace Dragonsreach? It seemed odd to revere such monsters so fondly. Perhaps there was a story to that, too. They looped a large courtyard built around a well, where several market stands stood in front of the formal shops; touting their wares and calling to the various travelers and merchants casually shopping.

Strangers sweared at her lack of attention as she pushed through them to watch vacantly. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen a massive throng of people toiling about exchanging goods. The shipyard she departed hosted a congregation so immense it spilled beyond the limits of the fractured barony… But everything was so different here.

Aside from a beggar in the alley and a few plucky warriors--perhaps swords for hire--everyone was dressed in warm, well-laundered clothes and carried no weapons. Everyone was clean and had fair complexions--not a freckle of disease or malnourishment. There was a well to draw fresh water from and stands overflowing with fresh food to eat and wine to drink.

It showed in their auras. At home there was an unmistakable reek of fear and desperation, even in those who covered it with mad cackling and a sardonic wit. Here, there were complaints about politics or rising prices, but no-one was anxiously looking over their shoulder for a lurking bandit, or clutching a shield to their bosom. There were no groups of armed men skulking around in a tight pack and stalking the lesser.

When they got around the court they came to a long set of stairs leading to the upper city with a channel on either side. A lush array of flowers and cotton thrived on the water’s edge beneath the periodic iron braziers as the group ascended past the rows of stores and residents occupying the lower parts of the city. Even a few trees in their autumn coat were resting alongside the path to break up the mostly sparse grounds.

There were even more wonders ahead as they crested the hill. The water channels on either side parted to form a circle, then met and continued until they reached their source at a walled basin; over that was a rocky peak with several cascades and basins of water leading up to the crest, where Dragonsreach watched over the surrounding city.

The middle of the round courtyard was shaded by a pale tree with violet leaves that seemed to flicker in the breeze, Orba feeling a strange energy radiating from it. There was a wooden enclosure and multiple benches beneath the sacred tree where a few were resting, though several people were congregated on the side opposite Orba in the shadow of a large stone monument.

As the three walked anti-clockwise around the gathering place, the undead saw another, more humble shrine with several flowers thrown at its feet. It depicted a beast of a man, at least seven feet tall, clutching a large battleaxe in one hand. His free hand was pointed forward, into some horizon, while a greatsword was slung on his back.

Orba realized this wasn’t a shrine, but a memorial by the two plaques at his feet. One of the plates was covered with useless scratch marks and bars, but the other had the eulogy:

 

_On this spot Jeek, River-Walker, most revered captain_

_And his crew of two and twenty men rose this hall_

_From the timbers of their ship, Jorrvaskr_

_So Skyforge may forever belong to the Nords_

_May their souls rest in eternal honor in Sovngarde_

 

The stairs flanking the memorial lead to a massive, crude wooden hall that was far older and more rough than the others surrounding it, which had to be Jorrvaskr itself. Sure enough, over Jorrvaskr, was the stone eagle upon its nest of flames Orba saw earlier.

It was peculiar to feel so aroused by this land, which was not her own, but she didn’t need to be from these parts to feel all the souls of the past lingering here and how much history occupied this small piece of land.

She jogged a moment to catch up with Hadvar. The soldier was paused behind a gathering, they were listening to a cleric in concealing yellow garb. He was shouting sermons of doom at the foot of his lord; a man in armor vaguely similar to that of Jeek, but more streamlined and new. It was fairly standard infantry gear with studded gauntlets, a rugged hauberk, and an open-faced, winged helm. There was no expression on his bearded stone face, but he had a serpent pinned under his boot with his sword raised for a strike.

“Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow?” Shouted the man in yellow, a few heads nodding as he spoke. "What then? Do the elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives?”

Jaren leaned to Hadvar. "We should leave.”

Hadvar complied and started away but Orba caught a few angered looks as they moved along. The preacher leered at Hadvar as he went. "And what does the Empire do? Nothing! Nay, worse than nothing! The Imperial machine enforces the will of the Thalmor! Against its own people! So rise up! Rise up, children of the Empire! Rise up, Stormcloaks! Embrace the word of mighty Talos, he who is both man and Divine!”

They ascended the stairs before the commune could become a mob, Hadvar musing when the rushing water drowned the preaching. "That man’s an audacious fellow to worship Talos so openly. I suppose if there were any hold that could get away with it, it would be Whiterun.” The legionnaire visibly trembled. "My father knew Balgruuf in his Legion days, before he became Jarl, and how inflexible and ferocious he can be. I hope I can get through to him.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jaren said. "you can’t expect good results without some confidence.”

“I hope you’re right.” Hadvar said meekly. Orba kept her thoughts to herself. The Thalmor were mad if they thought they could forbid people from venerating their lord and there wouldn’t be a fight. In times of war the ecclesiarchy was only good for riling people up and turning victims and sympathisers into more enemies.

At the top of the stairs they met a bridge forming the last steps to Dragonsreach. Ivy draped down the edges into the water source which formed the palace’s moat while several ornate arches stood overhead. The guards watched the group pass from their posts but didn’t reprimand them as Orba looked over the bannister and watched several fish swimming blissfully around a- skeleton.

_Just don’t question it_. Orba and Jaren filed behind Hadvar as the old oak creaked open, the undead studying her surroundings as they came through. As large as it was from the outside, the downright massive interior was still stunning. The mansion seemed hollow, with the high ceiling supported by a row of exposed rafters that resembled wishbones.

The cross beams and walls were all a plain mauve, though the base of the pillars and some of the wavy supports were carved with intricate endless knots that must have taken a time to create. Even the floor was bare as Orba’s boot sunk into the antiquated carpet and the planks beneath it creaked with age.

That’s what really struck her. While bereft the ivory whites and shining golds she imagined for a lord’s residence, there was a simple charm to it all. Shafts of afternoon sunlight filtered through the high windows and mingled with the garish, flickering orange of the central firepit between two feasting tables. It felt cozy and warm; grand in its scale, but humble in it’s decor. It made her want to pull up a chair and drink from a silver goblet at the table, but this was still a lord’s residence.

Said lord, Jarl Balgruuf, was seated on a wooden throne adorned with yet more dragons… far less impressive than the honest to gods real dragon skull mounted above the Jarl’s head. Each tooth in its agap maw was the size of a dagger, and the horns were large enough to run a fangboar through. No wonder they had a big cock about the dragons--they were using one’s head as a wall decoration.

The Jarl’s advisors were arguing intensely over the defense of the city, their conversation drowning out the crackling braziers on either side of the throne. A tanned man with older features and more hair in his small moustache than on his head took his turn. "My lord, I only advise caution in times like these,” he said. "A few weeks’ quiet isn’t enough to assume there’s been a skirmish in our Hold. We should wait until we receive more reliable news than hearsay and rumors from the villages.”

“Prey waits,” another grumbled. The shadows played over the dark grey skin on her narrow features as she lounged against the wall and inspected her sword. "Ulfric’s a straightforward man if nothing else. He was being taken to Cyrodiil, and now the city nearest the border has gone dark. What _would_ you assume, Proventus?”

“I’m of the same mind as Irileth,” Balgruuf said as he kneaded his long, golden beard. "If I know Ulfric--and I do know him--he’d never waste an opportunity to wound his enemy.” The brown eyes beneath Balgruuf’s ruby-studded circlet narrowed as the trio stood before him. "I don’t recall summoning a legionnaire, a cutpurse, and a common sellsword to my hall,” he growled. "I’m holding an important meeting, so you’d best have a good cause for this intrusion.”

Irileth stepped off the wall and positioned herself before the Jarl while Proventus knit his fingers and paced anxiously at Balgruuf’s side. The Jarl turned his attention to Hadvar. "Am I wrong to assume you bear word from Helgen?”

“I do,” Hadvar said.

“Forgive my assuming,” Balgruuf interjected. “But there were complications while you were transporting Ulfric across my hold. Is that right?”

Hadvar gave a solemn nod. "Yes. We held a beheading at Helgen. The Thalmor had a disagreement of some kind with Tullius. We couldn’t make it to Cyrodiil, so we...stopped.”

Hadvar pulled at his collar under Balgruuf’s withering stare.

Proventus was the one who finally pipped. "So, how did the proceedings go?” Proventus was answered with a long silence, Hadvar looking ill. "What happened in Helgen?”

“Helgen,” Hadvar sighed heavily, his body shaking with stress as he confessed to the Jarl. "Helgen doesn’t exist anymore,” He kept going. “It’s gone. My companions here are the only ones who made it out, as far as we know.”

Balgruuf’s fur cape framed his large shoulders as he rose heavily from his seat. The jarl glared at Hadvar the whole way up. His voice was practically a whisper, " _who is responsible for this?_ Was it the Stormcloaks?”

“No, nor the Empire.”

“The Thalmor then?” Balgruuf’s voice rose higher. “What manner of ‘disagreement’ broke out between Tullius and they? What have you done to my people?”

“No, it- I swear,” Hadvar scrambled to compose himself. “None of us were responsible for Helgen’s destruction...though it’s difficult to believe what really happened.”

Balgruuf crossed his arms as Irileth chimed in. "What are you playing at? If not the Thalmor, nor the Empire, nor Ulfric’s men, who’s left to accuse?”

“The everlasting dragons,” Orba didn’t realize she spoke aloud until everyone stared at her. Maybe it was because she was sick of watching Hadvar beat around it, but Orba kept talking. "I didn’t arrive until most of the damage was done, but the destruction was beyond anything a human could accomplish. There was no discrimination; corpses of every kind and clad with every color.”

“That’s right!” Hadvar added. “It landed on the watchtower; right in the square where we were holding the execution. When it attacked--in truth, I saw little of what happened. After the first attack I spent most of the time under a pile of rubble. The city fell so quickly I don’t know what could’ve happened, but that dragon was the cause.”

Irileth fumed at their words. “How dare you-”

“Irileth,” Balgruuf snapped. Irieth complained, but went silent as the Jarl spoke. “No matter how many denounce our heritage, the head of Numinex is proof they weren't some legend spun by our forefathers. However,” he added sternly. “Dragonkind hasn’t uttered so much as a whisper since Tiber Septim rose to Aetherius; and in the unlikely event a few yet live, I find it hard to believe they would come out of hiding at such a convenient time unless they were compelled to do so.”

“Perhaps you’re onto something,” Jaren said. “According to legend, it wasn’t uncommon for dragons and humans to interact, though I’m not sure how someone would go about procuring a dragon for their cause.”

“It is also not uncommon for men to make ridiculous claims if they believe it will further their cause,” Balgruuf retorted.

“But what would the Empire have to gain?” Hadvar asked. “Destroying a city and then covering the culprits with dragons...I doubt Cyrodiil itself would believe it.”

The Jarl settled onto his throne and rested his head in his hand. “Yes, why would you blame the dragons instead of Ulfric himself indeed. I have an explanation I feel is satisfactory,” he turned his attention to Orba, the undead woman shivering a little. “You said there were bodies from all sides? If that is the case--and I have little reason to disbelieve--then you’re right, another party was involved here. The empire has been desperate lately. Perhaps they made new friends, friends they needed to cover for after they overran Helgen in their attempt to kill Ulfric--perhaps the Thalmor Tullius was in disagreement with as well.”

Orba didn’t like what he was implying, and had her fears confirmed when Balgruuf spoke. “I’m sure you three are familiar with the outlanders? The ones from beyond the timescar. They’ve been a plague on Dawnstar for years now, and holed up in the mountains bordering Whiterun. We know little about them since they aren't in the mood for talking, but they’re the type savage enough to ransack a city trying to get to their mark. Are you sure _they_ aren't your dragons?”

“Absolutely not!” Hadvar snapped. Orba turned her face aside as he ranted. “Tullius would never stoop to recruiting barbarians like them, not when he was able to secure Ulfric by himself. The empire has been resisting them just as hard as you have.”

“Forgive my skepticism,” Balgruuf raised his voice as he continued. “But I’m going to assume Whiterun is in danger from real, _human_ enemies and react accordingly until I see hard evidence gathered by men I can trust. If you expect cooperation from me in whatever it is Tullius is planning, you are in for sore disappointment! I made myself clear when I informed the other jarls Whiterun would have no role in this senseless war, and I would respect both sides so long as they kept out of our affairs. Now look where we are. Because I am the only Jarl in Skyrim who holds the brotherhood of the Nord people over your politics, four-thousand innocent lives have been lost. And it is my men who will bury them.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Your apologies mean nothing to me,” Balgruuf retorted. “Apologize to the countless sons and daughters of Skyrim who have lost their lives because of you.”

“If I may cut in!”

Orba jumped at the new arrival, whom she didn’t see enter as he stepped ahead. He had a dark-blue robe and hood that left only his leather footwraps and hands exposed.

Balgruuf gave a hard sigh. “I already know what you’re going to say, Farengar, and I _urge_ you to choose a more appropriate time.”

“But, Balgruuf, I swear this isn’t about my scholarly interest this time.”

“It’s a damned obsession!” Balgruuf snapped. “Have you no shame? Is a real tragedy not enough to deter your curiosity?”

“This tragedy is _why_ I’m begging you to listen to me,” Farengar huffed. “Please, indulge me this one time--just this one time--and I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

“This is no time for your expeditions and experiments,” Balgruuf snapped again. “I need you to focus now more than ever.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Farengar threw his hands up. “Enchant a few swords and conjure an atronach? Maybe I can trap a few souls and sell the gems to the College for a few septims?”

“Mind your tongue, mage,” Irileth barked. “Don’t forget yourself.”

Orba watched everything spiral downwards as the court turned against itself. It was fucking stupid. All of them wanted the same thing, but no-one wanted to yield. The more she thought about it the more it scalded her. She tried to get their attention, as well as Proventus and a few others, but they were too passionate to hear anyone.

The undead woman clenched her fists. “ _Everyone shut your fucking mouths!_ ” A tomblike-silence fell over the hall, leaving only the crackling of the fires and the anxious shifting of armored figures.

Orba panted. “Is this how you go about solving things in this country? By standing around bickering about it? Why are we holding each other back instead of working together? Lord Balgruuf,” she said, the Jarl watching her intently. “You said you wanted hard evidence we were telling the truth, right? From people you trust? Then why does letting Farengar go out and get some offend you so deeply you would refuse to even hear what he has to say? Are you saying you don’t trust your sorcerer to do his bloody job? If that’s the case, what’s the damned point of having him here to begin with? I understand you hurt for your people, I’m not even from here and it wounded me deeply to see what happened to Helgen, but this--it solves nothing. If we don’t come up with a damn good plan to find and kill that fucking lizard, by working together, then _nothing_ else matters. You can fight humans off if you try hard enough, sure, but you have _no chance_ against a dragon if he comes when your britches are down. We are _all_ going to die here unless we start cooperating.”

Orba readied herself for the Jarl and his underlings to jump on her, but her resolve wavered when she was met with silence. Everyone seemed too shocked to reply, save the Jarl, who was dissecting her with his eyes. “What are you called?” He asked, his tone cold and formal.

The undead glanced away, “Orba.”

“Where do you hail from?”

“Highrock.”

“Orba is an odd name for a Bretan,” he noted. “It’s a Cyrodilic word. Do you know what it means?”

Orba shook her head.

“It’s what they call a deprived woman,” Balgruuf said as he watched her. “An orphan girl. Would you prefer a more dignified title?”

So the closest thing she had to a name was an insult…but there was something elegant in it. It was a beautiful and sad word, yet as featureless as the dark sun. “No. I _am_ an orphan girl, and I’ve been deprived of everything I ever knew,” Orba looked back at the Jarl. “Do my words mean less for it?”

The faintest hint of a smirk appeared at the edge of Balgruuf’s lip, but his voice revealed nothing. “Never in my life--as a Jarl or a legionnaire--has anyone been brave or utterly foolish enough to speak with such eloquence and vulgarity in my presence. There’s a fire in your soul I wish more Nords carried these days, and I feel that deserves respect,” Balgruuf frowned. “You will _not_ be afforded that privilege again, is that clear?”

Orba shrunk. “Yes sir.”

“Now,” Balgruuf said. “In light of these...arguments, I’ve had a change of heart.”

“You’re not really going ahead with Farengar’s plan, are you?” Proventus exclaimed. “Just because of what this- this- malcontented thug said in a fit of hysterics?”

“Her reasoning is sound,” Balgruuf said. “In the unlikely event a dragon is roaming the skies, it is wise to trust my court wizard’s consultation; especially since Farengar is a master of dragon arcana if nothing else. That doesn’t mean I will approve his plan,” he directed at the excited sorcerer. “But I will hear what he has to say, and choose whether or not I can spare the manpower after he has made his case.”

“Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf.” Farengar said. “The artifact I’m searching for is very close, you won’t even know I’m gone.”

“With your definition of close, that could be anywhere in Tamriel.”

“It’s in the tomb of Bleak Falls Barrow. I have a reliable source.”

“Riverwood?” Balgruuf raised his brow. “And what’s in that old tomb that’s so important to solving our dragon problem?”

“According to the ancient writs, it’s a stone tablet of ancient Dragon Cult lore,” Farengar explained. “The exact contents are uncertain, I admit, but I’m sure it contains a detailed account of dragon burial mounds, and possibly their clergy. This would be invaluable to my- I mean, the protection of Whiterun, because so far we know _why_ the Draugr never die, but not the source of their power.”

“And if we track down the Dragon Cult’s leaders,” Balgruuf reasoned. “We may find the dragons not far behind. The ancient Nords and the dragons share a deep and storied bond, afterall.”

“Precisely,” Farengar nodded. “At the very least, we can find the burial mounds and see if they’ve been disturbed.”

Balgruuf knit his brow in deep thought. “Is it even possible? That necromancy could raise beings as great as the dragons after all these years?”

“Man’s understanding of the dragons is fractured, but,” Farengar added. “My studies claim dragon souls persist forever after death. I don’t know if they could be coaxed back into their bodies or not, but...nothing is truly impossible.”

“Hmm,” Balgruuf hummed. “I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t some form of elaborate plot. But, if the dragons are truely returning, if Helgen was indeed destroyed by our ancient enemy, I cannot afford to turn a blind eye. There’s already a tear in the fabric of our world; if someone has discovered a means to return the dragons to Nirn and bend them to their will, we could be facing a catastrophe to rival the Oblivion Crisis. Farengar, I’m granting you full liberty to investigate this matter.”

“Splendid!” Farengar exclaimed. “To start, I’ll need a small escort with the supplies to reach the Barrow, then enough spare time to transcribe the engravings and compile locations of interest, then-”

“Farengar,” Balgruuf interjected. “I trust you’ll prepare accordingly, I have my own duties to attend. I’m doubling the guards in Riverwood, and extending patrols in that region. If there’s anything out there, we’ll be sure to find it.”

“ _If_ our men are up to the task,” Irileth added. “Helgen’s fall is only going to discourage our armies further, and we’re short as it is.”

“I know,” Balgruuf solemnly nodded. “I fear I ask too much of our people, and of you, but we are afforded no other choice.”

“I would shield the gates of Oblivion with my body, if you would only ask.”

Proventus huffed. “First the court wizard, now the housecarl. At this rate I’ll be the only counselor left in the cloud district!”

“No-one’s forcing you to leave,” Balgruuf smirked. “Though some time in the streets beyond the walls would do you some good. There may come a time even the steward must take up arms to protect this city.”

“And it’s my job to ensure that never happens,” Protentus scoffed. “I believe that is enough excitement for one afternoon. It’s going to be a long evening for me; finding the septims to fund all this extra traveling.”

“You’ll manage.”

Proventus departed through a set of stairs by the throne while Farengar passed the trio on his way back, the excited sorcerer mumbling to himself as he disappeared into a side room. While the court returned to their offices, Irileth remained behind and quietly discussed something with the Jarl.

Orba was distracted from them by Hadvar. “I cannot thank you enough for saving me,” he said. “I don’t know if it will make a difference in the end, but bringing this news to the Jarl could save lives.”

“What will you do now?” Jaren asked.

Hadvar looked towards the floor sheepishly, “I’m afraid this is where we part ways. I don’t know how many made it out, or if Tullius or Ulfric escaped. I may be the only legionary to witness what happened, and Solitude will want my report. I’m not an officer, not like my father was, but I’ll try to convince them to send help.”

“Let’s hope so,” Orba replied. “Everyone’s over their head in this one.”

Hadvar said his last goodbye and headed out through the front door, Jaren gesturing for Orba to come with him. He started for the open doorway where Farengar went, Orba wondering, “Where are we going?”

“You’re the one who wanted a job,” Jaren said. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

Orba didn’t know if the court’s sorcerer would find her worth taking along, but said nothing as they entered the sorcerer's study. Like the rest of Dragonsreach, the room wasn’t too opulent, but had a cozy and practical atmosphere. Several bookshelves lined the walls, with two large cyan carpets laid out on the dusty floor and an iron chandelier hung from the ceiling. Most of the large quarters was taken by an L-desk crafted of heavy and polished oak, with a cushioned seat on one side, and a long chest on the other. A large stand with a map of Skyrim sat between two pillars, Orba marvelling at how vast the civilization stretched; nine holds with nine major cities, and several smaller towns dotting the lands around the mountains, lakes, and rivers.

While most of the charm was simple, there was no doubt this was the room of a caster. Strewn across the desk was a mess of numerous tomes and scrolls, many of which were so ancient they were crumbling to dust where they sat and the pages were all but entirely separated from the spine. The decayed books were lit by a rainbow of colors cast by soul-enriched crystals, the gems contained in silver holders that resembled candlesticks. The auras glinted off several bottles standing on the leftmost side, the vessels as varied and colorful as the gemstones. The questionable tonics were likely brewed by the elaborate assembly of jars, pipes, and heaters occupying a table at the back next to another curiosity.

The pentagonal stand had three legs and a raised wall around the back with a line of candles burning across it. The pentagon’s point was occupied by a demon skull, a glass orb filled with swirling green mist embedded in its forehead. The vacant eye sockets stared across the tabletop, at six glowing turquoise symbols arrayed in a pentagram.

Farengar didn’t notice Orba gawking at his setup as he gathered various fresh books and a few tools into a bag while he talked absently to himself. Jaren spoke first, “Hi.”

“Mmm?” Farengar looked up--and upon seeing who it was--carefully put his bag on the desk as not to disturb his antiquated books. He went to Jaren and furiously shook his hand. “Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you personally!” Orba winced when Farengar shook her own hand with equal vigor. “The circumstances are terrible, but thank you for giving me this opportunity to do some real field work. It’s been too long since I was allowed to investigate items of real import with my own eyes, though I’m sure Balgruuf will be strict about keeping me safe.”

“Be glad you have a boss that cares,” Jaren said.

“Balgruuf is a good man, for certain,” he frowned. “Forgive me for being so cavelier in these grim times. But I’ve dedicated my whole life to understanding the dragons, reclaiming the culture that came before our own, and I have a gut feeling you’re telling the truth.” He said. “I’ve served Balgruuf as good as a mage can, but this damnable conflict has everyone’s spirits of late. I feel the jarls have forgotten there are bigger things out there than the Kingship, or the differences between man and mer. Again, thank you for finally convincing him to take my side on this. If the Dragonstone is really up there, we could be looking at the greatest breakthrough of dragon knowledge in generations. Though I fear it will not be easy…” He mumbled.

“Speaking of,” Jaren added smoothly. “Me and my friend were in town seeking a job. Do you think you could help us with that?”

“Oh!” He pipped excitedly. “You want to join me on this journey of discovery, do you? Well, at least for the septims and the fighting, like the other great warriors.”

“Yeah.” Orba said.

“Of course, I would be overjoyed!” Farengar exclaimed. “I’ll see you are both paid handsomely. It may come out of my own purse, but if it meant cracking open that tomb and uncovering its secrets I’d pay you my whole year’s salary. Besides, you’ve seen the dragons firsthand. Maybe it will bring us luck.”

“I’m not sure getting burned in the ass by dragons is very lucky,” Orba returned.

Jaren shrugged. “It’s a matter of perspective, really.”

“At any rate,” Farengar said. “It will take two, maybe three days to organize things. I’ll make sure to spread the word around, so you’ll be welcome to stay in Whiterun while you wait. I’ll make sure you are fetched when the time is right, and we’ll all make the trip to Riverwood together and launch the expedition from there.”

“Got it,” Jaren said. “Guess we’ll see you then.”

The two left Farengar to his business and made their way from the manor. “Right back into danger,” Orba sighed as she thought aloud. “I guess that’s what we feeble cursed ones are best at.”

“Some people are just good at finding trouble,” Jaren replied. “I like it though. Life would be boring otherwise.”

“I would’ve agreed on that oh, one, two hundred years ago?” She said quietly, as not to alert everyone around her. “It’s one of those things that gets old, though it’s nice getting back into familiar territory.”

“You seemed pretty at home telling the Jarl off,” Jaren laughed.

“That was spur of the moment!” Orba defended. “I couldn’t have planned that if I tried, and I’m damned lucky the lord didn’t have me lynched for it.”

“The fact you just said whatever came to mind, carefree, and was able to change the Jarl’s mind,” Jaren replied. “Maybe that’s _why_ you’re good for more than mindless fighting, unlike so many others.”

Orba quieted as she thought on that. She ended up staying quiet as the two stepped into the afternoon sun, free to rest a few days before taking the next plunge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A moderate delay, as to be expected from my motivation issues, but here it is.
> 
> A thanks to FishSlayer and CyberWeasel for their continuing support in helping me put this together.


	5. Pieces of the Past

Riverwood was sleeping when Orba came over the stone bridge with Jaren, Farengar, and a sizable force of guards. Most the defenders were staying behind to keep an eye on Riverwood, but around eighteen were Farengar's escort. That made twenty-one, by far the largest group Orba had traveled with-if her limited memory served.

Even if it wasn't enough, it was less stressful than going it alone. Orba felt the morning dew on her tongue as she breathed the foggy air, the sky turning shades of lavender as the morning sun peeked over the mountains. A few early-risers paused their wood-chopping and feeding animals to gawk at the force entering the village, Orba finding refuge under the iron brow of her helm.

No-one knew what she was, but being watched still made her skin crawl.

Farengar, somehow, managed to avoid trampling the surrounding guards while nose-deep in an ancient tome, though he crept up on Orba's heels more than once. "We'll pause at the Inn to rest and eat," the court sorcerer said to no-one in particular. "We'll reach the summit before noon, if we make good time."

"Contending with the restless dead while you hunt for magic trinkets isn't something I much care for," one of the armored men said, no doubt voicing the rest of the guard. "I hope you plan to get us out quickly."

"We aren't just scrounging around like common bandits," Farengar scoffed. "We're going right to the Dragonstone; within the inner sanctum of the Barrows. That is, if this tomb follows the same basic plan as the others in my notes."

"All this for a rock?" Another one asked. "Maybe we _should_ scrounge around."

Farengar sighed through the laughter of the guards. "I'm glad you're amused. We could be the first men of this age to lay eyes on the stone and uncover its secrets; that alone is priceless."

Jaren walked by Farengar. "I know you're excited for the hike and all, but it's going to be a little cold for an Argonian."

The court sorcerer worked his purse open with one hand and gave a handful of coins to the lizard. "There's a merchant not far from here," he said. "I'm sure he carries an elixir of frost resistance. And don't worry about the extra coin, it's the least I can do."

"I'm obliged."

"When that's taken care of, meet us at the Inn. I'll order something for you."

Jaren and Orba headed further into town, the undead giving the former a sidelong glare when they were out of earshot. "You pillaged more than enough from Helgen to buy that potion yourself."

"I never asked for coin, I just said it was going to be cold."

The undead rolled her eyes. "You're a right bastard, you know that?"

"If he cared that much, he shouldn't have offered."

Jaren lead her through the streets, until they came to a plain two-story lodge with a sign-a semi-circle with a scale hanging below it-hanging above the door. It didn't look like much, but Jaren let himself in with Orba close behind. The undead's hand went to her sword when she heard shouting coming from within, but relaxed when she found a harmless dispute between two young adults-maybe husband and wife-who were standing by the fireplace.

It was clearly a living room, with the dining table and a couple chairs set in front of the fire, as well as other small comforts. The only discernible "store" was an L-desk by the wall in front of two shelves filled with various odds and ends; from flasks containing questionable liquids to cheese and vegetables, and hanging from the ceiling was a wheel hung with dead rabbits and dry herbs.

The occupants were too caught up in their dispute to notice the two, as the man cut off whatever argument his mate was making. "I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"

"Well, what are you going to do then, huh? Let's hear it!"

"We are done talking about this," he snapped. The olive-skinned man noticed the duo just then, and adjusted his red shirt with a flustered expression. "Oh. I don't know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open. Me or my sister Camilla would be glad to help."

Orba watched the storekeeper retreat behind the desk to tend the argonian. "I need a tonic to resist the cold," Jaren said. "I can't stand the mountain air."

"Ah," the pawnbroker exclaimed. "It's been awhile since anyone tried climbing to that old crypt. Few come back from it. I have just what you need," He said as he went to the bookshelf behind him. "I'm sure it's in here somewhere."

Jaren's eyes drifted to an empty space on the desk while the storekeeper rifled through the various glasses on the shelf. "Wasn't there a gold bauble here last time?"

The man sighed heavily. "Yes, we did have a bit of a... break-in."

"I heard noises from downstairs," Camilla interjected from her seat. "I came down just as they grabbed the Golden Claw. I could have caught them, but Lucan scared them off and wouldn't let me leave the house."

"You're my responsibility," Lucan snapped. "And tangling with bandits isn't something you need to be doing."

"Now we've lost the only conversation-piece we had," Camilla replied with her arms crossed. "I don't want to hide under your roof for the rest of my life, especially not when you roll over whenever things are uncertain."

"You don't have to stay here," Lucan offered. "You have two fine men who would love your company-"

"This again!" Camilla huffed. "They're my friends, I shouldn't be forced to choose between them, and I- It's just…"

"Um," Jaren waved. "I'm still here."

"Oh!" Lucan grimaced. "Oh course, here you are." He gave Jaren a dark bottle with two blue labels. "That will set you back 30 septims, my friend."

Jaren offered him the money, and placed a hand on his scaley chin. "Hmm," he pondered. "Did you see who the bandit was? I might know him."

"It was a dunmer," Camilla said. "He was tall and lanky, and he had two squinty red eyes. I think he had a moustache, a thin one."

"Did he go right for the claw?"

"Yes he did," Camilla nodded. "From what I can tell, he picked the front door open earlier this morning, grabbed the claw, and when I accosted him it woke my brother up. He just ran away then, but I suppose the claw was the only thing worth taking, anyway."

"You should have woken me first," Lucan grumbled.

Jaren shook his head. "Yeah, yeah I know him alright. Arvel the Swift. I've caught him trolling around a few times; always boasting how he was going to find some key to the ancient Nord tombs, how he was going to become the richest man in Skyrim once he looted all the hoards. It was a fool's venture that would take more men than he could afford, but I do remember him mentioning a claw during one of his drunken binges."

"That has to be it," Camilla exclaimed. "He must have taken the claw, and met with a group of other bandits on the mountain."

"If that's the case, you're in luck. Me and my associate were just on our way there," Jaren said slyly. "We're looking for a tablet of some kind, but I could be persuaded to keep an eye out for the claw in case we run into Arvel. What's it worth to you?"

Camilla looked to Lucan. "If you're so against retrieving the claw yourself, we should have these adventurers search for us."

"Yes, I agree." Lucan sighed. "The Riverwood Trader just isn't the same without that ornament. I've got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It's yours if you bring my claw back."

"It's a deal then," Jaren said. "It'll be back before you miss it."

"Yes," Lucan leered at Camilla. "So now you don't have to go, do you?"

"Oh really? Well, I think your new helper here needs a guide."

"Wh...no...I...Oh, by the Eight, fine! But only to the edge of town!" Lucan relented.

Orba released an anxious breath as Camilla and Jaren left the store, the undead already ahead of them. First Sigrid, now Lucan, were there any families in Tamriel that weren't full of patronizing horseshite? She didn't know how Camilla put up with it. Though, based on her words, she didn't.

"We don't _really_ need a guide," Jaren shrugged. "I'm pretty sure Farengar has five different maps of the path."

"I'm glad you say that _now_ , I needed an excuse leave the house for a while," Camilla clenched her fists. "Though I'm sure my brother will have every guard in Whiterun looking for me if I'm not back in ten minutes."

"That bad, hmm?"

"My brother means well," Camilla sighed. "The only reason my parents let me leave the province was because Lucan was already established here, and could give me a job at his store to support myself. He promised to teach me the trade, but when Lucan looks at me, he sees the same whimsical little girl he left in Cyrodiil."

Orba inspected Camilla over her shoulder, now that she had time to concentrate. She was the same apparent age as the undead-just leaving adolescence. Unlike the nords or Orba herself, Camilla had sharp cheekbones and a more narrow nose, as well as the same olive-tone as her brother. Lucan, conversely, had a wide and round face-like an egg-topped with a bowl of closely trimmed black hair with an equally trim ring around his mouth. He wasn't old, but the years were starting to show in the creases in his cheeks and the sunken rings beneath his eyes.

He was maybe thirty or so, ten years ahead of his sister. Considering men tended to strike it out on their own early...no wonder he was such an ass. The last time he saw Camilla, she was knee high.

Camilla caught her gaze, and Orba glanced away. "Your friend hasn't said a word, is something wrong with him?"

"That's Orba," Jaren replied. "She's like a sabre-kitten; fluffy and cuddly, but will put a hole in you just as fast. That's to say, she only talks to me. Unless she's yelling at someone."

"You give yourself too much credit," Orba mumbled. "I'm just not in the mood."

"You're not from around here," Camilla commented. "That makes two of us."

"I noticed," Orba said. "Your face is skinny."

Camilla giggled, and Orba wondered if she said something wrong. "I'm Imperial, if that's what you mean. You're an odd one."

"I've heard that a lot lately," Orba said. "Jaren's the only one who's taken a liking to me, and he's a lizard."

Jaren presented Orba his middle finger, and Camilla poorly attempted to suppress a snort. Orba found herself laughing, though no-one but herself could hear it.

They reached the Sleeping Giant Inn, the trio creeping into the crowded building. Their entire entourage, plus a few other guards, were occupying the tables surrounding either side of the roomy hall. The innkeep kept himself occupied behind the large table at the back, since he had so much food to prepare, numerous cooking pots hanging above the central burn pit from their dedicated rafter.

Orba noticed Camilla cringing, and found her attention drawn to a blond nord filling the halls with the music of his lute. Who was currently eyeing Camilla. Orba didn't ask any questions as they found Farengar, who greeted them with his usual enthusiasm. "You're back! Our meal hasn't been served yet, it seems Delphine is out for a few days."

Jaren and Orba sat across from him, Camilla joining freely. "That robe… are you a Court Wizard?"

"I am," he nodded, clearly pleased with himself. "Farengar Secret-Fire of Whiterun, at your service. I see you've already met my hired help."

Camilla turned to Jaren and Orba. "You didn't tell me you work for Balgruuf's court!"

"We don't," Jaren shrugged. "We're just running a few errands, since we've been swept up in some business."

"Now," Farengar interjected. "Don't understate your role in making this expedition possible. Your accounts and Orba's-um-eloquence, were just what I needed to start getting to the bottom of this-um-" he caught himself. "Well, it means a lot to me to finally have an occasion to explore Bleak Falls Barrow."

"About that," Jaren gestured. "This young lady wants us to get something for her while we're at it."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Camilla mumbled as she turned her eyes to the tabletop. "Earlier this morning, a bandit broke into my brother's store and stole an artifact we were using as decoration. Jaren thinks he took it to Bleak Falls Barrow. Something about unlocking a treasure hoard?"

"Unlocking-yes," Farengar said, already deep in thought. "This artifact, can you tell me exactly what it looked like?"

"It was nothing that special," Camilla shrugged. "It was a dragon's hand with three fingers, and it was made of solid gold."

"A solid gold-I knew it. The moment you said-" Farengar tripped over his words as he reached into his carry bag, flitted through the items, and drew a journal with expert precision. He flipped through the pages, then turned the book to show Camilla. It was a pencil sketch of a three-fingered dragon hand with a crooked wrist, and three nodes on its palm with a blank symbol. "Is this what it looked like?"

"Yes!" Camilla exclaimed. "It was just like that, only it had an animal on each of those circles."

"No wonder it was stolen-I mean I apologize for the break-in, but it-"

"Farengar." Orba snapped, the excited sorcerer reorienting himself as he went through a few more pages.

"Many nord tombs share similarities, namely a fortified inner sanctum where the most revered of the draugr are preserved. It's this inner chamber where the ritual that keeps the draugr alive is performed. Most of them are simply patrolled, but based on these accounts, the most honored or important had their sanctums warded by a Hall of Stories," Farengar explained. "Some of the Dragon Cult's greatest accomplishments and rituals of worship were preserved there, and it ends with a nord puzzle door. You see, the ancient nords were not only great warriors, but adept craftsmen and brilliant engineers. It's said that each puzzle door has a unique key-a 'Dragon's Claw'-that will open it."

"So the Golden Claw was the key to a draugr ritual chamber," Camilla huffed. "No wonder my brother never said where he got it."

"It's very likely the Golden Claw belongs to Bleak Falls Barrow...which may complicate things," Farengar pondered. "If Bleak Falls Barrow has a Hall of Stories, it's all but certain something of great worth is stored within. It likely _is_ the final resting place of the Dragonstone. But without the Golden Claw, getting into the inner sanctum would be quite an ordeal. I have a few ideas, but it would be best if we found the claw."

"Well," Camilla asked. "Would it be possible to have the claw back afterward?"

"Well, I would prefer to study it," Farengar grumbled. "But I suppose there's no reason to keep the claw once we've entered the sanctum and claimed the Dragonstone. That tablet will keep me busy for quite awhile."

"Thank you," Camilla said. "You're a very gracious man. I hope you can return it safely."

"Relax," Jaren smirked. "That's what we're here for."

* * *

Orba possessed astonishing resilience, as did the majority of undead. She was especially unbothered by the cold, if only from spending so many nights under the frigid desert skies. So it spoke volumes that this-the trek high into the mountains above Riverwood-was the most miserable and bitter cold she'd experienced in her life.

The undead pushed the collar of her thick cloak to her chin, grateful Whiterun had the foresight to lend them all heavy furs for the trip. Her armor creaked as dew warmed by her shivering body settled into the various crevices and froze, the cold leeching all the way through her undershirt. Her teary eyes stung everytime an errant gust threw a cloud of ice crystals into her face, Orba damn near blind most of the way up.

If the draugr's intention was to hide their relics where only the most stubborn would trespass, they were doing a damn good job of it. At the very least, there was a fairly obvious rift surrounded by high ledges to follow, the winding trail creeping gradually upwards.

Orba's breath was a little short from the altitude, but she swore she could feel the snowy pathway leveling off. She took a shape in the distance as further evidence they were close to their goal. As Orba got closer to the structure, the pillar began to take an identifiable form through the heavy mist; an odd-shaped tower perched precariously on the cliff's edge, such that it needed a small bridge to safely enter from the wider path.

Orba nearly jumped when a deep bellow echoed through the gully, the sound racing up her spine and resonating in her chest as it drowned the sounds of their footsteps and the wind around them. It sounded..heavy, like a fog horn.

"What in Chaos' name?" She muttered aloud as the growl echoed into the distance, another low beat following it moments later. Orba could barely make out a lone figure atop the tower grasping a large, carved tusk formed into a primitive horn.

"A Dragon Cult gjallarhorn?" Farengar exclaimed. "But how did the bandits get their hands on one?"

The horn let off one more blast as multiple figures around the base of the tower and around the bend emerged to confront them. The sudden ambush gave Orba a much-needed shot of adrenaline to shake the stiffness from her body, the undead drawing her sword and surging towards the front of the pack.

As the two groups drew close, Orba could make out the details of the defenders.

It was like gazing into a mirror. The men-or that which were-were to the ice and snow what Orba was to the flames; an emaciated husk of a being that'd gradually been leached dry of Humanity by the elements, with thick veins and the remnants of muscle beneath their grey-blue, frostbitten flesh. Their eyes were a sharp azure color, and while their armor was in various states of ruination-dried and frayed leathers, disintegrating hauberks, gaping holes from missing plates-they moved with a sense of urgency and purpose far beyond mere hollows as they formed ranks on eachother and attacked.

Farengar was the first to strike with large balls of swirling flames condensed into his hands, the lobbed pyromancies whooshing through the air before audibly bursting against the draugr. A splash of heat kissed Orba's face as the sheets of snow around them flashed into steam, the partially exposed skin of the frigid beings releasing a billow of acrid smoke as it blackened. The draugr let off stifled grunts, but advanced with even greater determination as they cursed under their breath with something Orba couldn't make out.

Her first opponent was short and heavyset, his sallow, frostbitten face framed with a braided beard and hair that spilled around his shoulders and down every side of his brigandine. His glowing eyes leered at her from behind the nasal-guard of his medium helm, the ancient soldier lifting his spiked shield and bracing his spear beneath his armpit for support.

Orba squared up on him with her eyes on his center mass, keeping her peripherals open so she could spot someone attacking her from the side, while still keeping track of where the draugr's hands were. Likewise, the draugr held his footing on the treacherous grounds as Orba shifted through her stances. It was clear this undead wasn't a simple hollow; too focused and with a stance too steady.

The ancient soldier jabbed at Orba's side, the undead brushing it aside and stepping around the second; she noted how he knew better than to overcommit to any one attack and kept his entire center mass and neck behind his shield. The undead predicted the course of his next attack and stepped towards him, the soldier keeping in step and retreating at equal pace. He saw through Orba's plan to work him towards the edge of the path, to the cliff, and discarded his spear.

The draugr's ancient sword scraped the interior of its scabbard harshly, the iron blade blackened and wooden grip faded to a sickly green. It was sharp enough, Orba finding herself on the defensive as the soldier threw his shoulder into a shield bash. The undead was able to brush most of the impact away from her, but couldn't recover fast enough to stop him from stabbing into her leg.

The tamrielic steel held, but the tide shifted against her as he pushed aggressively. Orba hoped he'd expose himself, but he was smart enough to keep his guard up.

She could hold him back more or less as long as she wanted with both hands on her weapon, but it'd be a pain to find a way around that shield without resorting to forcing her way through his guard. As they traded blows, the other guards flanking Orba entered her peripherals as they pushed back against their own opponents.

Farengar's pyromancies were supremely effective, a great fireball striking a knight in the sternum and eradicating most of his upper torso, the billow of smoke parting to reveal his exposed spine and skull as he fell over. In her brief moment of distraction, Orba's opponent was able to catch her sword, the spikes on his targe acting as a swordbreaker as he cranked his shield to the side. Orba pulled on the ensnared weapon, but the draugr only twisted harder, Orba unable to free her sword from the web of spikes even as she pulled her opponent forward.

The draugr abruptly drew Orba's swordarm to the side with his shield, the undead feeling sharp pain run down her arm and across her shoulder as his sword was thrust through the hole in her guard. The strike from below broke the hauberk shirt protecting her armpit, the sword withdrawing to release a gush of blood.

He went to stab her again, Orba having no choice but release her weapon to avoid him. She felt wet heat spread across her fur undershirt as her axillary bled out. Shit. She needed to stop the bleeding fast.

Orba brought her hands up as her steel sword fell from the draugr's shield, the shield bearer banging the rim of his targe with a smirk on his rotten face. Orba charged him, the draugr raising his shield, but Orba strafed towards his swordarm. Unable to turn faster than she could move, the draugr swung his shield in an arc to strike her. When the undead stepped out of reach of the shield, Orba predicted the sword-swipe that followed, and caught the longsword with her armored hand.

He was surprised for a moment too long as Orba used her other hand to lock his elbow. He was a heavy bastard, but Orba threw her entire body into a tackle while twisting his arm, the soldier and her switching positions with her at his back. She used her leverage to flip him face-first into the snow and reclaimed her sword while he reoriented himself. His temple was met with a mordhau as he stood up, the blunt force sending him staggering.

Orba hoist her sword high into the air and reversed her grip, the tip pointed at the ground. She gripped the base of the blade just above the guard, and used her full bodyweight to stake the draugr's thigh, the armor sundering. When the hamstrung soldier fell to his knees, the undead grabbed him by the face and threw him onto his back, before plunging the tip of her blade through his eye to seal it. The undead looked in all directions-seeing no immediate threat-and took a gulp of Estus to seal the wound on her arm before the bloodloss started to impair her.

Even in their emasciated state, these dregs weren't half bad. Orba stopped a second to catch her breath as she watched Farengar immolate a few more soldiers with jets of arcane fire while the guards were just finishing off their opponents. Even still, the frozen undead kept shouting what she assumed were curses and boasts and attacked with fervor.

Orba aided the others, and soon enough they'd defeated the sentries. The bulk of their escort was able to fight off the attack, but Whiterun's guard still mourned for those lying dead in the snow. Orba sat against the rocky wall next to her, the frigid mountain air finding her bloodied furs and sending uncomfortable cold across her chest. Of the draugr, the majority were blackened with flames, while the others could only be dispatched with a direct blow to the head or throat.

Which meant, if the draugr also had sorcerers in their ranks, or simply enough numbers, it would be severely problematic for them if their pyromancer couldn't keep up. Said court sorcerer looked over one of the frozen undead. "It doesn't make any sense," he pondered. "The draugr bound their lifeforce to their tombs, and have none left for themselves. They _can't_ just leave."

"I'm no alchemist," Jaren said as he came alongside Farengar. "But it's my educated opinion that isn't the case here."

"But-No, that simply, ugh," Farengar huffed. "The arcane forces that sustain the draugr are thousands of years old and the best known mechanism surrounding them. But...perhaps, this watchtower is on the grounds consecrated by the dragons? Yes, that must be it. The alternative is..."

A guard approached the sorcerer with his hands out. "Farengar, what should we do? I've never seen draugr this aggressive before, and I don't think we can survive too long up here."

"The way is...treacherous," Farengar admitted. "But we can't turn back now, not after this."

"What are you saying? We barely survived this encounter, now you want us to hunt for more?"

"It's not an easy request to make," Farengar said. "But if our past is truly coming back to haunt us; hiding behind city walls and trying to ignore the signs puts the whole of Skyrim at risk."

The guard sighed. "We're bound to serve you, no matter what decisions you make. But you'd best hope you know what you're doing."

Farengar started forward. "The temple shouldn't be too far now."

The troupe reluctantly trailed after the court sorcerer, Orba watching the summit of the mountain rising over the sunken trail through the rocks. They were definitely getting closer, as she could make out streaks in the fallen snow where patrols had gone through multiple times. A few spaces were bridged by stone arches like the ones she saw on the mountain, the blackened stone falling to off angles as the very geography surrounding them shifted over the millenia.

As they followed the trail, the drifts of falling snow and piles of rubble gave way to a cobblestone path with more defined borders. Every so often, a decorated standing stone covered with scratches rose above the snow, the face diligently swept to keep it legible. Farengar identified the tablets as trail markers and ritualistic messages for pilgrims, Orba understanding whatever was ahead was far more than a glorified crypt.

As the path grew into a clearing sprawling across the mountaintop, Orba felt a strange feeling overtake her. It swelled in her chest and muddled her mind; like she was late for something, or she was returning to her rightful place without understanding it. Some part of her always yearned to stay in the dirt, and felt the dead beckon her. But this new sensation was something more than that, and the part of her that wanted to be here was some remote part of her soul she'd never felt before.

Orba shook it off. After crossing a few broken archways, the group reached the front patio of the tomb. The monuments that looked so small from the ground dominated the skyline now. Each of the black archways stood taller than most houses, with each one a few sizes larger than the last until it reached the one standing highest at the top. It was like they framed a large cathedral, smoothly flowing down the summit, but forgot to build the walls and roof, fallen snow dusting the windswept front steps.

More standing stones were spaced around the entrance, the arches adorned with dragon statues and claws, similar to Whiterun, but older and crude. Some narrow, covered platforms stemming from the main walk seemed made for archers, though they were vacant now. Farengar climbed the stairs to the front deck, staring up at the stonework with wonder as the group made their way up the final ascent. "Amazing," he exclaimed. "We're the first living men to be here in over five-thousand years, yet so much of it is still intact."

One of their guards shifted nervously. "I don't know. This place exudes a foul air."

"As it well should," another chimed in. "This is where our ancestors gutted themselves, like animals, and used their necromancies to puppet their own corpses about. It's evil."

"The arcane is no more malicious than a trowel or an axe," Farengar calmly said as they continued forward. "It can do terrible things when misused, but that is on the irresponsibility and malicious intent of man. The Dragon Cult is fanatical, but the ancient nords harnessed wondrous and powerful magics; even defying time itself."

"And you're here to pillage their remains."

"We're here to learn," Farengar retorted. "In the unlikely event the Dragon Cult can bring dragons back to life, we have to know where we can find their most exalted priests and where they buried the dragons. Only then can we see if the graves have been disturbed and who is responsible."

"I hope you're right," a lady guard said. "Otherwise, we're all going to die for nothing."

"No-one is going to die," Jaren said. "Well-no _more_ people are going to die."

For once, Jaren didn't manage to lighten the mood as they found a welcoming party on the front step. About ten men and women in all were torn apart, their corpses sloppily nailed to the old boards they were able to find, before they were hanged from the rafters above.

"I see the draugr aren't welcoming guests today," Orba mumbled.

Farengar went to inspect them while their escort grew agitated and shifted uncomfortably. "These corpses are fresh," he noted. "They must be the bandits that stole the Golden Claw, but I don't see it on their person."

"I guess the draugr took their property back," Jaren shrugged. "So, what's the plan?"

Farengar crossed his arms and pondered. "I suppose we keep our guard up, and enter."

"With all due respect," Orba huffed. "That's a pretty shit plan."

"I'm well aware," Farengar sighed. "But until my concerns are taken seriously and I'm given a proper army, it's all we have."

"Alright then," Jaren said. "That's a pretty sturdy looking door, we should work together on opening it."

Orba turned her attention to the main entrance of the barrow, and sturdy was a fucking understatement. The doors were over ten feet tall and made of solid iron, with horns and spiral shapes carved across the blackened ore. Orba took the heavy ring on the right hand door, while one of the larger guards took the left. The doors screeched as they were drug over the stones, a whoosh of air pushing into the tomb. After pulling them far enough, the wind caught the edges and pulled the door from Orba's hand, the undead cringing at the loud bang that followed.

While the arches were blackened with exposure, the interior of the barrow was showing its age far more as the group carefully made their way over the threshold. A row of square pillars running down the center were worn thin from erosion, a gaping hole in the left side of the chamber leaving a window open to the elements. The group had to wade through ankle-deep snow that'd settled on the floor, a few candles lit within the cracks and contours of the falling pillars flickering in the wind.

Orba's eyes traced over the fallen rocks and chunks of ceiling, as well as the fading stonework and the table covered with ruined books and broken bottles, and wondered if she'd be unlucky enough to be standing here when the whole thing decided to come down. Farengar raised his hand, and with a sharp crack an orb of light flashed into existence between his fingers, the ball fixing itself over his head to light the way.

"Alright, everyone stay together," the sorcerer said matter-of-factly. "We're entering very hostile territory."

No-one needed confirmation on the matter, and stayed in a tight group as they crossed the long hall to a circular corridor that proceeded further down. The way became brighter when they reached the end of path, which terminated in a dead end with another steel-rimmed stone table and a path to the left. Somehow, the crypt still had braziers burning oil on their sconces along the musty hall, the light reflecting off the water trickling from the cracked ceiling. The moisture turned the floors into a mess of fractured stone, overtaken by moss and split by sparse grasses searching for warmth in the gloomy torchlight. A little further, where the leaks formed a small thread of a stream down the crumbling stairs, thick vines forced their way through the wall entirely, and were left to form hanging curtains and sprawling carpets that invaded all other settings.

The group skirted the demolished sections of wall, where massive boulders collapsed into their path. Between the invading plants and rock, it was a wonder they could get anywhere in here, some pathways completely inaccessible as it was.

After wandering so many ruined places, Orba couldn't help but find traces of the past. Some bookshelves lying against the walls or broken in half by the rubble still held bandages and medical tools, while others displayed a catalogue of tomes too ancient to read now-though the writing could have been anything. Simple, finely crafted candle sticks sat cold and still in the corners, Orba's boots stepping over shattered jars and urns, the delicate craftsmanship all but erased.

All these things came together in her mind as she tried to envision this place as it was thousands of years ago, how it could have been a fine underground lair. All the libraries of knowledge, the tables laden with treasures and artwork, the workstations and altars. It was so strange to imagine a race that could build such an advanced network of tunnels and chambers through the mountains could just vanish.

No, they were not extinguished by the gods and forgotten by history, as the people in her realm were. They _chose_ this. All the tools of embalming and mummification-they came here to be like her; immortal, stronger and more resilient than any man, leveraging their souls as collateral for cheating death. All so their civilization could endure under their watchful gaze a little longer.

Orba saw Farengar maneuvering through the maze of ruin with his nose in a tome as he recorded everything and compared it to his past musings on Dragon Cult arcana, bewitched by every little relic remotely intact. She wasn't a scholar like him, but the prospect of revealing what lead the ancient people of Skyrim to this point-what their civilization may have been like when they built this place, it gave her a fair amount of excitement too.

Maybe it was just doing for these people what she couldn't do for her own.

After working deeper into the tomb, they filed into an open chamber with more light and decor than the previous halls they'd scurried through. An iron portcullis barred the way on the far side, a row of three stone heads watching over it, though the middle one had broken off and was laying under a small pile of rocks on the floor. Aside from the moustache and a brow that looked more like a helm than skin, their major distinguishing trait was an agape mouth holding a silver symbol on a black tablet.

The braziers around the room were decorated by a dragon on each corner, while a few more sconces around the ceiling were built on a serpent's head. A loft sat above the gate but below the heads, and was accessible by a set of stairs on the right side of the room.

"Aha!" Farengar nodded. "I've heard of these kinds of puzzles before; meant to prevent the unworthy from proceeding deeper." He walked to the lever, looking around and immediately pointing to his left. Orba now noticed three obelisks with similar symbols to the heads set into three enclaves in the wall. "If we match those three pillars with the three carvings, the door should open."

"And what if we pulled it now?" Jaren asked, a sly smirk on his scaly lips.

"I'm not entirely sure," Farengar said. "But it would surely activate some form of deadly trap to kill us all. The ancient Nords were master architects and engineers; all their tombs are defended by hidden weapons."

"Then it can't be that simple," Orba pondered. "No-one keen enough to compose such an elaborate trap would leave the solution winking you in the face."

"Ah!" Farengar exclaimed. "But they predicted observers would think that, that is why the solution is always how it appears. Otherwise it is secured by a riddle that only keen taskmasters could solve."

"That is the single most ludicrous, arse-forwards excuse for logic I've heard in my entire life. And my life is _very_ long."

"Really?" Jaren said as he placed a scaled hand on his chin. "Everything you've sat through quietly, and you draw the line here?"

"When my intelligence is blatantly insulted in this manner, yes, I do draw a line," Orba put her hands on her hips. "If you want to test it, you're welcome to try, but it isn't going to work."

"Snake, snake, whale," Farengar sounded off, the guards roughly turning the old pillars until they ground into place. He pulled the lever, and after several pulleys and weights groaned, the door slid open. The court sorcerer was pleased with himself. "There we are, simple"

"Outsmarted by rocks," Orba grumbled. "Are you fucking serious?"

Jaren drew next to her as the rest of their group progressed. "That _is_ pretty sad."

Orba butted him in the side, Farengar waving at the group to signal them. It seemed the only way out of the liason was a rickety wooden spiral staircase leading even deeper into the mountain. There was only room for one at a time.

The hall filled with clanking boots and creaky wood as the members plodded further below, Orba progressing a few paces at a time until it was her turn. It was a good thing she hung back to dead last, as she found her hand wrenched onto the central pillar as she crept down. She stared at the gaping fissures in the wood and swore she saw the waterlogged timbers turning to mush and falling to the ground far below with every step, the rusted nails creaking so loudly she felt her bones rattle.

Orba kept herself low and hoped the bastards didn't give out beneath her as she took on the steps at length, wondering how her nerves held up so well on the mountain-though high altitude was something she had experience with. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the bottom of the well, which turned into a yelp as the final step snapped in half beneath her and she nearly jumped out of her armor to avoid falling.

Jaren was there waiting for her, and immediately took to her side. "I didn't realize you were afraid of heights."

"I'm not afraid of heights," Orba said as she composed herself. "I just appreciate when my footing is rubbish. Falling to death is the most undignified way to go."

"I'll keep that in mind next time I get killed." Jaren teased, though Orba felt an unnecessary throb hearing him say that so casually.

When everyone formed up on eachother, they continued down another straight corridor, which ended in a high chamber completely overcome with thick spiderwebs and massive egg sacs. It was no wonder who made it, as an orange tarantula that stood as high as a man was piled in the corner. Thankfully it was very dead, hacked to pieces and partially frozen by the defenders of the tomb. As he did with everything, Farengar went to inspect it. He checked the blood on the floor especially, and looked over the wounds across the spider's body.

"Frostbite spider, nasty things," one of the guards commented. "It seems they're as great a blight down here as they are on the farms."

"Yes," Farengar mumbled as he stood up. "This spider hasn't been dead more than a few days. The draugr must have neglected the upper areas of the barrow for many years, and began moving out only recently," Farengar paced a moment as he contemplated heavily.

One of the guards got thinking as well. "But...that doesn't make sense. If they wouldn't deal with vermin on their front step for that long, why clear everything out now?"

"I don't know," Farengar said. "That's what concerns me the most. Focusing everything on the inner layers of the barrow, sending sentries beyond where their magic should sustain them...the draugr are not entirely understood, but this behavior is very extraordinary. There's no doubt that _something_ of tremendous value lies in the innermost sanctum of this temple, and that _something_ has stirred the draugr to action."

"Well," Jaren shrugged. "The dragon that torched Helgen is something. Do you think that would raise the Cult's attention?"

"Most definitely, but we need more information," Farengar stopped, and faced the loyal men of Whiterun firmly. "I won't deceive you. The catacombs must be just ahead. There's no telling how many are awake, or what condition they are in, but we are entering the most dangerous and well-protected wing of this tomb. Be on your guard. Watch your back. Keep eachother safe."

Their escourt gave an affirmative, Orba grasping her sword as they proceeded to the other side of the chamber and filed through yet another doorway. The dim halls were feeling claustrophobic as the nervous guards pushed their way through, dust and gloomy mist drifting around the halls from further below. Orba was struck by a foul smell on the air. It was the scent of dried blood and mildew mingling and left to age, unmistakable to her after meeting so many forsaken lands.

A sharp chill ran up her spine, though the reek of death came second to the assault on her other senses. She could feel numerous souls-mangled and left to fade-that were flowing in all directions and agitated by some outside force. She could feel the desecration and horrors that went on in this place as they sought to surpass the mortal coil, but it came out wrong.

They stepped into a wider chamber, and Orba broke into a cold sweat.

This was indeed the catacombs. The chamber was bored out like an ant colony; the chamber wide, long, and sprawling in every direction for a considerable distance as it sloped down the uneven floor, the ceiling of the endless chamber supported by pillars spaced around in such a way they could open more space without collapsing it.

Shelves just large enough for a man were stacked three high, and cut into every wall as far as she could see. Almost all of them, even the ones next to Orba as she stepped down, were occupied by a fully armed draugr, not even the faint rise and fall of breath disturbing their deathly stillness.

She dared try and put a number to them, though she already knew it was too many. A hundred? Two hundred? More than that?

If at any point they decided to get up from their nap, they were completely buggered.

A guard put words to her thoughts. "Are they dead?"

"No, I doubt it," Farengar shook his head. "They're simply replenishing," he brightened up upon realizing something. "That means the transference ritual may have been very recent! It's a little strange they would do it all at once, but if they did, we may be able to reach the inner sanctum without a fight."

"Hold on!" Another barked. "What do you mean by transference?"

"All the draugr tithe their life essence to a priest, or a similarly high figure," Farengar explained. "They do this periodically, on a rotation, before maintaining the barrow and then going into a death-trance to replenish their energy. If none of them have awoken yet, they may be incapacitated for several hours."

"That's all well and good," an escort scoffed. "But what if you're wrong? We'd be completely trapped with all these... _things_ around us."

"It may be an unavoidable risk," Farengar shrugged. "It's that, or trying to fight our way through all of them when they awaken. I'm afraid both would be equally hopeless."

"Well," Jaren added. "It's either a small chance, or no chance at all. That doesn't give us many options."

"No!" A larger man barked as he stepped forward from the crowd. "This madness has gone on long enough. It was foolish to come here, but pushing any deeper, with so many undead horrors around us...no, we didn't come along to throw our lives away for nothing."

"It's hardly for nothing," Farengar returned. "What would you do if there ever comes a day the draugr are _not_ constrained to their tombs? If they could reach out and hurt us, however indirectly?"

"You don't know that," he retorted, several others nodding. "What I know is this; we lost good men today to a group a fraction the size of this rabble here, and you want us to follow you even further? On the mere chance they won't awaken? You're just like all the other wizards; your only loyalty is to your own curiosity, while common men like us die in the name of your 'research' into matters best left alone."

Farengar sighed. "I can't compel you to follow me, if you believe so strongly I'm wrong. Go ahead then, go, be safe. The same goes for the rest of you," he gestured. "If anyone wants to return to the entrance, and await my return, you're free to do so. I can't stop you, and I don't want you to endanger yourselves on my behalf. Anyone who stays should know the risk."

The first one to leave was the speaker, while the rest of them looked to eachother nervously, contemplating the shame of desertion, but one by one they filed away with their heads down. It was now Jaren, Orba, and a six more that were accompanying Farengar.

The court sorcerer smiled faintly. "Thank you."

He lead them on, the rest of his thoughts left unsaid as they walked among the dead. The catacombs continued for awhile, though it seemed luck was on their side for once as none of the defenders awoke. Farengar proved to be a capable guide as he lead them around the various booby traps spaced around, the lethal contraptions standing in for the sleeping guards.

Spiked iron walls that flew in an arc upon stepping too close, hidden blades that swung in from slits, toxic darts rigged to wires. Farengar wasn't exaggerating when he said the gate to the catacombs was rigged to kill them all, even if it was trivially easy to disarm.

At the end, the chamber narrowed into another slender hallway with even more enclaves of guardians, a few standing in place with their arms crossed, seemingly ready to step out and attack at a moment's notice, though none of them did. It wore on Orba's nerves, and made her want to get it over with and escape as fast as possible.

The hall abruptly turned from carved stonework into a natural cave with stairs set into the slope, the group making their way up and finding a subterranean creek winding through the natural tunnel. Aside from a bridge or shelves here and there, the path was untouched by the draugr, the group walking along the deserted banks. Orba stared in wonderment at the glowing green mushrooms covering the walls around them and the gentle waters waking over the creek bed.

Orba found sunlight ahead as they met the peak of a waterfall, where the creek fell into a deep well that ascended all the way to a crack in the mountain summit. They skirted around, to a bridge over the gap, and after walking further through the caves they were dropped abruptly into another man-made structure.

It was hard to tell how much was intentional, and how much was improvised as the millenia passed with no way to leave for supplies. This hallway was especially mangled by vines and rubble, though they were still able to reach the door at the end.

When Farengar pushed it open, they found a chamber so pristine it was like stepping back through time. The robust brick arches supporting the rounded ceiling ended with a boulder of a keystone, while the rest was thick, smooth rock. Aside from small fissures in the floor and a faded appearance, the hall was by far the most well kept section of the Barrow, the care and focus on the symmetry and endurance clear. After a moment, Orba noticed that between every arch was a stunning set of engravings that depicted what she assumed to be history.

Nords being carted away on a table by men with various tools and scrolls, a procession of masked men raising their hands towards the skies with various scratch marks surrounding them, a warrior riding a bear over a rampart, godly figures over the clouds with winds and voices waking over a mountain. Every frame on the wall was a wealth of knowledge between the symbols and the events portrayed.

Farengar was taken so far aback he couldn't even produce his books. "The Hall of Stories," he breathed. "So pristine, such rich detail...it would take years-decades to record all of this. It's unfortunate there's no time now," he sighed as he lead them further down the hall, though he couldn't help admiring every story he passed, occasionally noting how it confirmed something he knew or was different from the other accounts.

As they reached the end of the hall, Orba's hand began to tremble. She gripped it with her other hand to still it, but her entire body began to quake so violently her armor rattled a little. The undead felt suffocated as her heart and breathing became erratic, though she tried to hide it as chills raced up and down her body.

Jaren noticed her immediately. "Hey, what's the matter?"

Orba could barely speak, everything in her body telling her to run. It wasn't like her to panic, but there was no denying the feeling. "There's a tremendously powerful soul ahead. I've never felt a presence so heavy before. I feel...I feel like it's calling to me, but I don't know how to describe a force this powerful."

Jaren had nothing witty to say to that as they came to an open doorway, another natural cavern beyond. Farengar nodded. "They must have used Golden Claw to unseal the chamber for the ritual. If the puzzle door remains open, that should mean…" He trailed off as he lead them inside.

The cavern forming the inner sanctum sported a massive raised platform, like a theatre. A concave wall of stone decorated with elaborate spiral carvings and cleaved tiers overlooked the chamber from the back, with a set of stairs leading to a loft that curved around the sanctum. There were a few dozen draugr lined around the upper platform and kneeling on the stage, white wisps of souls trailing from the prostrating draugr towards a figure at the base of the wall.

As they crossed a bridge over the creek, and approached the stage, Orba could make out where the souls were flowing. A lone figure in a death trance was slumped over in his throne at in the shadow of the wall. A stone roughly the size of a human torso was slotted in the throne above his head, scratches and small images covering the face of the pentagonal tablet. There was a symbol adorning the bottom identical to the one near the top of the wall, and on some of the draugr-like a military insignia.

It resembled a skeletal head with a pointed jaw, two tusks on either side, and a star on the forehead; altogether vaguely resembling a dragon, but not entirely.

"There it is," Farengar nearly whispered. "The Dragonstone. We need only claim it before the ritual completes."

They climbed the final steps, onto the stage hosting the Dragonstone and what appeared to be its guardian. Orba jumped as the man abruptly sprung up in his throne, rustling the brunette beard trailing down his front. For a moment, the two parties simply gazed at eachother, as though the draugr awoke from a bad dream and was confused by the new party on his doorstep.

It lasted only a moment before his icy blue eyes glinted with malice, shadows playing off the graceful gazelle horns arcing above his head as he stiffly pushed himself from his seat with a massive mace made of black crystal. His armor creaked as dust fell from the joints, but it was noticeably of far superior make to any of his subordinates.

His pauldrons were dragon heads, his long legs armored with heavy steel grieves and plate tassets that surrounded his thighs. His torso was encased with a full plate harness that granted total protection from his waist all the way to the chin of his iron horned-helm, a row of spines surrounding his brow completing his regal apparel. All his armor flowed with detailed carvings and spirals resembling the architecture of the ruins, leaving no question to the time and mastery of the craftsman.

The presence Orba felt earlier was completely overpowering here as the blackened knight produced a shield emblazoned with the Dragon Cult symbol from his back with one hand and slung the ebony mace over his shoulder with the other. His soul was like a blue flame that poured from his body as he took an almost passive stance, amused at the figures he now towered over.

His speech was distorted by his hollowing, but his heavy voice enunciated very clearly in the strange language of the draugr. " _Zu'u los Deinmaar do Dovahgolz. Dii zaan fent kos laat truk hi hon._ " Even with no idea what he was saying, his intention was clear to Orba as she impotently drew her sword to protect herself. " _Kos volahvraan us zey ahrk ath!_ "


	6. Voice Within

Orba's heart pounded in her head while the ancient figure held his position, his shield raised and mace calmly dangling at his side. The two sides faced each other almost motionlessly, though there was no fear in the cultist's leering eyes. It was more like a bird of prey looking over mice, deciding which to fall on first.

Farengar raised a hand, a swirling bundle of flames coellsing in his fingers before hurling the spell at the guardian. The frozen undead calmly shifted his shield to catch the fireball, a row of runes along the rim of his dragon shield gently glowing as the fire dispersed like a splash of water. He took a sharp inhale as Farengar fired a stream of flames into him to no avail, the sorcerer raising his arms in panic.

What happened next, Orba couldn't make out. A tremendous crack of thunder reverberated through the undead's head and chest, a sudden and violent gust of wind almost knocking the breath from her as it passed near. With her left ear ringing, Orba's eyes turned to the vacant space where Farengar was standing, the glowing shards of his shattered magic barrier dissolving. Further back, the sorcerer was tumbling through the air like he was thrown from a catapult.

She didn't see the draugr perform any spell or conjuration, yet somehow he broke Farengar's defense and _threw_ him back. Was it some form of outlandish power she didn't know?

She returned her attention to the guardian, who was already drawing a breath, and raised her guard. As he exhaled, he leaned forward and hunkered into a low stance, another gust whipping Orba's face as he pounced forward. The undead squinted her eyes a moment to protect them from the dusty whirlwind; when she opened them again, he was already upon them with his mace drawn back.

He swung with the full momentum of his impossible speed, the unfortunate guard in his path crumpling around the black crystal as her arm split in two and the ebony ore shattered her ribs with a squelch. She was knocked away by the force, blood trickling through the visor of her iron helm as she landed at the feet of her companions.

Time stood still around Orba as she squinted her eyes at the vastly superior opponent.

_Watch. Listen_. She told herself as the guards took arms against the guardian, and he took a breath and grinned. This time, through the wail of ringing metal as the escort's swords gained a mind of their own and pried themselves from their wielder's hands, she could hear it.

Jaren leapt onto the draugr's back with his knife held aloft, the weight of his body alerting the guardian. Another cry, and Jaren's surprise attack ended with the lizard stabbing at smoke as he fell onto his knees clumsily. The draugr left Jaren no time to stand as he turned corporeal once more and kicked the would-be assassin down.

The keeper of the sanctum shouted. " _IIZ!_ " Orba could hear it clearly now as a pale mist blew across Jaren's prone body, thick growths of ice crackling as they sprouted across him like mold. Jaren grunted and strained as he was completely entombed on the ground, but the casing held fast as the draugr raised his mace, but chose against it and instead focused on the more immediate threat of the guards who were circling him.

Orba's cold eyes darted between every piece of architecture and setting, her mind unclouded as she turned back to the greater undead.

The ancient warrior brawled with his multiple opponents with ease, his strange powers allowing him to quicken his movements to nimbly defend with his shield while his mace kept everyone at arm's distance. He toyed with them and uttered a jovial, rough laugh as he leapt out of reach with deceptively high agility for one of his size. His next shout was preceded with a far more pronounced stance and breath as he landed. " _IIZ SLEN NUS!_ "

Each word significantly enhanced the power of his shout, his freezing breath spreading over a wide enough cone to catch several of the meditating draugr and all five of the guards in its wake, even as they tried to run, the cone of frigid air freezing over in a dense sheet. Their struggles were drowned by the sound of hissing air and crackling ice, the draugr's feet falling heavily on the frozen stones as he came to the first in his path.

He made a show of bearing his mace aloft, the guard struggling in vain to move as he watched the draugr ready his strike with all due patience. When the cultist went to execute him with a direct blow to the head, the ebony mace swung over as Orba tackled the escort to the ground and smoothly rolled back to her feet.

Orba raised her chin to look him in the eye and leveled her sword with both hands. The draugr stepped to her while Orba tried to keep in step, the great warrior ignoring the incapacitated men in favor of putting down the last bit of resistance. He overtook and swung for her, but Orba ducked to the side at such an angle he was not able to strike her. She predicted his shield would bar her and didn't attack, instead she stepped to the other side and feinted a stab, then jumped away from his counter. The ebony mace scraped the front of her breastplate, and in return she stabbed the interior of his elbow as he swung wide-though the hauberk soaked the damage.

Now she was certain of his reach, moves, and speed. Orba started to exploit every hole in his defense by using her smaller size to press close to him. The draugr warrior leaned more and more on his shield to repel her as his attacks failed, even if Orba wasn't strong enough to damage him. Just as the undead got her rhythm down, Orba found the gap between his hits getting smaller as the cultist surged forward.

She found one swing followed another too closely for her to step aside, and used her sword to parry his mace. The impact rattled her shoulder and strained her wrists with the force, and soon he was hammering on her defense like the ocean pounding a beach. Orba grit her teeth as she used all her strength to hold him back, the guardian regaining the upper hand as he stopped toying and worked the stiffness from his old bones.

Orba was running out of breath as she gave more and more ground, her joints aching as she held her sword in a shaky deathgrip. They were evenly matched in skill, but even deflecting most of the damage Orba could only stall him so long with such a difference in raw power, and knew she had act quickly.

He brought his shield up to defend him, and Orba realized too late he was using it to mask his next shout. " _SU!_ " He swung his mace forward, the weapon a shrieking black blur as the wind danced around it. Orba's grip nearly failed as he batted her weapon aside with the burst of speed. " _GRAH!_ "

The undead never saw his shield, only felt the rim of the steel plate strike her chest, her breastplate crumpling as she was thrown back. Vomited blood spattered all over the floor as Orba rolled to her feet, her chest burning intensely as her lungs spat up rivulets of blood. It took all her willpower to choke down the pain as the lord overtook her with his sudden and impossible speed and brought his mace crashing down on her head. Orba brought her sword overhead, her hand gripping the blade, and felt her bones rattle as she was forced to her knees. The steel bowed under the impact and bit into her hand as she struggled to hold up.

He kicked her down, Orba uttering a pitiful yelp as his iron treads aggravated her broken ribs. She choked on her own blood as she lay flat on her back and watched him bear his mace aloft. The draugr stumbled and grunted with the first hint of pain since the fight started. He looked over his shoulder at the intruder, Jaren digging his sword deeper into the back of the draugr's leg.

The draugr turned on the argonian and lashed out, Jaren ducking the hit. As the draugr drew breath to shout, Jaren smoothly dived forward to get under the freezing cloud. " _FEIM!_ " The draugr vanished from sight again, Jaren turning in all directions with his sword in a defensive stance.

The draugr stepped back into the open as though walking through a door, throwing an agitated shout as he overtook the thief. " _SU GRAH DUN!_ " With all three words, the winds surrounding his weapons resembled miniature whirlwinds, though Orba saw little of them as the guardian's arms turned into two seamless streaks.

Jaren was as stunned as her, and had his legs knocked out from under him before he could react. He fell onto his back, the lizard unleashing a blood-curdling scream as the head of the draugr's mace smashed his kneecap into paste. The draugr stomped on Jaren's chest with an agitated growl, and was again interrupted by a thrown sword-one belonging to his own entranced men-bouncing off the back of his head with a clang.

He turned back, his lifeless blue eyes almost expressing surprise at seeing Orba-battered and soaked in fresh blood-back on her feet, several gulps of Estus soothing the ache in her chest as her broken ribs rapidly knit themselves together. He stepped off Jaren and limped towards her, his proud smirk replaced with a frustrated glower at the persistent intruders as his wounded leg slowly dripped darkened blood.

Instead of wasting time in melee, he took a low stance and screamed. " _FUS-_ " The latter half of his shout was drowned by a crack of thunder so loud it shook the ground, the gust of displaced wind coming over Orba with the force of a hurricane. Orba's lungs collapsed as every part of her body was rattled and battered, as though she were being trampled. Her skin went numb and eyes felt like bleeding as she was pushed back, her resonating armor pounding her skin as she skidded across the ground.

Orba felt the world spinning, her ears and head ringing non-stop as she viewed the world through a blurry fog that reduced her vision to basic shapes, unable to tell up from down. She struggled to breathe when she skidded to a stop, but did not fall as she used her sword to support her shaky legs. While she could barely tell where anything was, Orba felt the back of her foot brush a hewn stone and was elated to find she'd finally made it to the stairs.

She tripped and stumbled her way over the steps with her hands and feet, so she drew her Estus and took a quick sip to relieve her concussion. She peaked over her shoulder as she stowed the flask, and found the frustrated draugr limping after her at full tilt, already at the base of the steps and working his way up.

Good. Orba's footing improved as she ran. Now they had a chance. A miniscule, unlikely chance, but nevertheless a chance to win.

Her hope was dashed when she heard him shout, and there was no room to evade. Orba ran as hard as she could, but just as she reached the top step and turned, the boreal winds kissed her face. Intense cold pressed in from all sides, the growths of ice slowing her movement to a halt. She couldn't get any leverage on the arcane ice with all her appendages trapped, the casing holding like cement as her stinging, watery eyes watched the draugr amble over the steps.

Orba strained every part of her body against the hold, her heart pounding with distress and lungs painfully compressed by the ice entombing her. This was where she was going to make her stand, what she waited for, and now she couldn't even turn away from her executioner in shame. The ice trembled as she grit her teeth and struggled, the guardian nearly upon her, his uneven footsteps getting louder.

The undead cursed herself. After everything she went through, the hell of endless deaths and wandering, when she finally had a chance to change things, she fucking failed. Herself, and everyone else. Her eyes went from the guardian to Jaren, who felt so far away as he watched her back. He struggled to stand on his regenerating leg, but just collapsed back to the ground with the pain.

At least she wouldn't have to watch the closest thing she had to a friend die.

Orba sobbed, and struggled with renewed vigor as the draugr stood before her. The ice was hissing now as the undead fought with every fibre of her soul and willed strength she didn't have to come to her. Her vain efforts returned an amused smirk to draugr's face, and Orba's struggling boiled over into a rueful scream as he swung.

The undead's arm ruptured the icy casing, red hot embers pouring from beneath the bindings and flowing across her armor and flesh. The ebony mace met the back of her hand with an earthshaking crack, her iron bones repelling the black crystal with such force it threw the draugr off-balance. Even after parrying with her bare hand-the burning armor dented against her skin-she didn't feel any pain. In fact, she felt nothing at all as she brought her sword down on the draugr's shield with such might it dented the edge of the blade and drove him back another step.

The draugr's albino face was tinted red from Orba's glowing eyes, the warrior stunned as the undead kicked him in his bad knee. The draugr howled as the wound was driven open and spurted blood, the undead grabbing the draugr by the collar as he fell and hoisting him back into the air.

With a thought, Orba pulled back and threw him off the steps like a bag of flour. She poised herself to leap down after him, smoke trailing from her body as she fell free. The draugr grunted as he landed hard on his back, but had no time to fully raise his shield or roll out of the way as Orba crashed upon him and drove her blade down with all the force her body could muster.

His shield deflected the blade from his sternum, but the steel still threaded through the visor of his helm, crushed through his teeth and parted his lower jaw. The tip embedded itself in the back of his neck, though it was not entirely lethal as his hand left his mace to try and pry Orba's sword from her. The cindering undead struggled with him, before deciding to use her knee to drive the blade forward. The bone crunched and squelched as the sword opened a cleft from his mouth to the upper part of his cheek, the ancient warrior throwing the unsteady undead off his chest with a screech.

He righted himself and uttered several indecipherable gurgles and grunts from his mutilated mouth, unable to form even a single word. Robbed of his voice, he looked to his mace, but before he could try to grab it, Orba leapt at him with the ferocity of a wild beast. Her fist rattled his skull as as she drove it into his helm, landed on her feet, and set upon the staggering draugr, the warrior on the defensive as she wildly slashed at him with her sword.

She grabbed the edge of his shield with one hand and clumsily stabbed for him, the draugr grabbing her own weapon. The two grappled with each other, embers and frost, as Orba let go of her sword to put both hands on his shield. She growled as she wrenched it to the side, locking his arm inside and forcing his body forward. Before he could be completely trapped in the hold, he let go of his shield and snaked his arm out.

He turned back as Orba was swinging the shield by the rim right for his head, and ducked away. He brought the undead's battered weapon to bear as he retreated to a safe distance, so Orba impulsively drew the shield back and threw it at the draugr to buy a moment of time; she grabbed the hilt of a greatsword attached to a cultist kneeling next to her. With the flex of her shoulders, she flung the entire body forward, the sword slipping from its sheath as its wielder flew towards the guardian.

The guardian swatted the comatose underling aside carelessly, and focused on the undead-now armed with an ancient greatsword-coming at him with seemingly endless reserves of aggression. The two clashed with a thunderous report of flesh and metal, the undying fighters devolving into a haphazard, desperate brawl for survival.

There was no telling how much time passed through the haze, but very suddenly Orba felt faint as she threw herself at the draugr and stumbled past him. _No, something's wrong,_ the undead thought as her body became sluggish and heavy, numbness replacing the burning heat that coursed through her moments ago. The embers glowing across her body went out, as did the violent red glow of her eyes.

The rage left her, along with all her strength as she staggered forward and collapsed to her knees. Orba struggled to move, but it took all her strength to so much as sit up, her eyelids struggling to remain open as everything started to hurt. The muscles she tore apart, the ankles she sprained, the hands she badly fractured, the internal organs she placed enormous stress on...

Orba weakly raised her head to the guardian, who was equally haggard as he removed his horned helm and pressed a hand over the badly bleeding wound on his face, though he had strength enough to grip his sword and amble unsteadily towards her. As an undead being, it was hard to tell if he would succumb to the injury or no, but she didn't have the strength to finish him off now.

The undead, defeated, resolved to stare him in the face as he loomed over her.

His front was consumed by a bloom of flames, the heat making Orba squint as the warrior staggered back from the firestorm engulfing him. The undead looked back over her shoulder, at the new figure stepping into the fray.

Farengar's fine sorcerer's robes were marred with the rocks and dirt ground into them, one of his arms hanging limply at his side and soaking his entire sleeve with blood. His thin and scholarly face, likewise, was puffy and bruised, one of his eyes squinted closed from the traumatic wound covering the side of his face. But as his flame-engulfed arm concentrated a bulging orb of wildly swirling embers into his palm, his normally whimsical blue eye glinted with focus.

The circle of remaining guards rallied to the pyromancer as he cast his firebolt, which streaked over Orba's head to strike the recovering draugr in the center of the chest. The impact forced him back as it struck the face of his armor with a great explosion, Orba turning her face from the sweltering heat when she felt another and then another fireball pounding into the crippled warrior, steam and the reek of charred flesh hissing from the guardian.

When the haze cleared, Orba could see the exposed face of the draugr-almost skeletal with faint wisps of hair and melting flesh clinging to the scalp-release a silent sigh from his dangling lower jaw as he roasted inside his once glorious mail. Even still, he was radiating with power. Orba tensed as the five escorts came to her side with Farengar not far behind, his flames ready.

The keeper sprung to his feet with a violent scream, a chill running down Orba's spine as the unintelligible sound echoed through the chamber. The warrior brandished his warped and smoking blade as he ran forward with an unsettling, disjointed gait; his hands and legs haphazardly twitching as he loped towards them. Orba raised her arm defensively, when-halfway towards her-his form heavily keeled over, his smoking body hitting the rocks with a dull thud.

Orba lowered her arm and fought to catch her breath as she blinked the cold sweat from her eyes, less from the threat of immediate danger and more from the shock a dead man could unleash such a sound. His body released a torrent of ethereal blue fog, the power of untold countless souls accumulated over the millenia escaping his grasp and pouring forth in a deluge.

The tide swept and flowed in streams and loops, like a river, and converged upon her hollow soul. A jolt of electricity ran through the undead woman as the life essence soaked into her skin, her heart and strength swelling within her burnt-out frame and numbing some of the pain. She'd absorbed plenty of souls in her lifetime, as did everyone in her world, but this felt nothing like the hollow souls she was so used to handling.

Rather than fluttering like unsteady wisps in the wind, the great soul situating itself in her body felt _heavy_ , like a great basin of deep, dark water. She wasn't hollow just yet, but she felt deep satisfaction, even if it was nothing close to Humanity. It was cold and steady, but at the same time held a violent edge; the soul of an aged and devout patron of the sword.

As she finished consuming the soul, there was a change in the air around them as the armor of a vast army began to clank and shift. The draugr, who'd been completely comatose through the battle, began to wail and groan as they awoke from their trance and rose, many of them uncomfortably close to where Orba was incapacitated. The five escorts formed a protective circle around the undead woman while she tried in vain to push herself up with her greatsword, but it was like trying to lift a sack of lead.

Looking past how vastly they were outnumbered, it was apparent something was wrong. The draugr approached the intruders with a haggard shuffle, some of them barely remembering to paw at their swords as they mindlessly advanced in a haze. Farengar approached one close to him, and casually pushed him over with one hand, to Orba's bewilderment. "With the ritual halted by his death," Farengar exclaimed to himself, "the flow of souls has been completely disrupted, they cannot recover any of their strength!"

"Then we can kill them!" One of the guards called triumphantly, "By the Nine, what a stroke of good fortune!"

"This is for Hege, you bastards!" Another one shouted as he plunged his sword through the unprotected visor of one of the shambling warriors, Farengar and his men setting to work cleaning them up while Jaren-limping slightly-held vigil by Orba's side.

The undead woman had uncomfortable flashbacks to the clerics of her past as she watched the human soldiers, outnumbered ten to one, effortlessly chew through the defenseless, hollow draugr. Maybe they sinned in the past, but watching them attempt to fend off the fully human, fully battle-ready men with movements akin to a child was pitiable.

Soon, the ritual ground was littered with corpses and flowing with fetid blood, until everything fell into the familiar post-battle silence.

Farengar nodded to her as he returned with his men. "Can you stand?"

Orba struggled to rise one more time, and Jaren caught her when she stumbled. Estus did nothing to raise her spirits, so she shook her head. At least her embarrassment was hidden under cold steel as two escorts lifted her by the shoulders, the orphan sure she looked good and pitiful as she was cradled between them.

"That was splendid work," Farengar said. "Without your quick thinking, I would surely be dead."

"No," Orba shook her head. " _We_ prevailed, together. I just...gave you an opportunity."

Orba winced when a guard slapped her on the shoulder. "You hear this? She's trying so hard to be modest in victory; making all of us look like milk-drinkers."

The undead was nearly drowned out by the snickering of the guards. "What? I couldn't even stand, let alone finish him off."

Everything settled down, though Orba was still indignant at being carried towards the throne. As they spread out around the throne, Jaren found the Golden Claw resting at its feet and took it upon himself to pick it up. "There we are," he said as he rolled the artifact around in his paws. "Wasn't even hard."

"Oh shut it," Orba complained. "Before you tempt things."

Farengar was too enraptured by the aging throne to notice them, the sorcerer carefully inspecting the construction keeping the stone tablet slotted in place as he circled the seat. He mumbled excitedly to himself for a bit, before calling a pair of guards to his side to help safely pull the Dragonstone from its rest.

The rusty metal shuttered as the tabs were turned to the side, leaving the tablet free to be pushed back out. Farengar hawked over the guards, every shift of the rock causing the sorcerer to fuss and fidget, as though the tablet were made of fine glass. The guards grumbled back at him as they freed it entirely and cradled it between them, though Farengar was still inspecting every blemish on the edges.

"Alright then," Farengar spoke as he gently brushed some loose metal flakes off the edges. "This should be able to survive the return trip. I'm going to find a place to stay and begin my study at once. I want at least a few notes before we return to Dragonsreach."

Orba tuned them out, alerted by a disturbance droning in her head. "Jaren?" The undead called, "Do you hear that?"

"Hmm?" He grunted as he continued admiring the shining golden key.

"That voice," Orba said, the undead searching for the source of the strange chanting-so quiet it was nearly inaudible, but it was too clear to be imagined. "I can't be the only one who hears it, can I?"

"Did you crack your head?" One of the guards supporting her said. "I can't hear a thing, other than the Court Wizard being his usual self."

Orba wiggled free of the two, her legs burning with the strain of supporting her, but she was able to slowly limp herself towards the imposing wall enclosing the throne. With every step, the call grew louder as it echoed into the back of her mind. The sound had a dreamlike quality to it, like phantom noises heard right at the moment one falls into sleep. She could make out many voices now, though it was impossible to tell what they were chanting with all the background noise and how indistinct they were. When she reached the face of the wall, the voices abruptly stopped.

The undead blinked away the haze, and wondered what compulsion seized her. She nearly jumped when Farengar came up behind her, his face bright with wonderment even with his injuries. "Ah, you felt the call, didn't you?"

"I guess you could say that," Orba wondered aloud. "I don't hear it anymore, though."

Farengar inspected the markings on the wall, Orba realizing all the little scratches were too orderly and distinct from one another to be accidental or without purpose. "These Word Walls were raised all over Skyrim to mark the resting places of great warriors and heroes, but in my studies, I've discovered something else."

"What?" Orba said.

"They were tools of learning, see these marks?" He pointed. "Every Word Wall is written in the language of the dragons; the ancient nords-especially the Dragon Cult-were very fluent. In the old myths, they say those who could use the Voice could absorb their knowledge directly." He grinned at her. "It seems I'm talking to a master of the Voice in waiting!"

"Yeah, sure." Orba scoffed. "So, what does this thing say?"

Farengar looked at the markings again, Obra sorting all the scratches into blocks and seeing how each collection of scratches was one word, and the words were arranged in blocks from left to right, like normal text. "Forgive me if my dovahzul isn't perfect, but it's read as 'het nok faal vahlok Deinmaar do Dovahgolz, ahrk aan FUS do unslaad rahgol ahrk vulom'. 'Here lies the guardian, Keeper of the Dragonstone and a force of endless rage and darkness'. Hmm," He mused, Orba finding herself locking on the same word as he. "Interesting; in this context 'force' is used metaphorically, but this character means 'force' in the literal sense. That is: to force aside, to overwhelm, to force through barriers and obstacles. I suppose it's a poetic double-meaning."

Orba rubbed her temple, thanks to the splitting headache his droning was giving her. "That word…Fus...that was the word he shouted at me when I was thrown back from him."

"Ah! You have a keen ear," Farengar exclaimed. "That was his thu'um."

"Thu'um? Is that what he was using?"

The court sorcerer tripped over himself trying to organize his thoughts on the topic. "'Thu'um' simply means 'Voice' in the dragon language, but the Way of the Voice as we know it today and the Thu'um that was practiced in the dawn times stemmed from very different schools of thought." He explained. "Only the Greybeards continue to teach the thu'um to new generations, as a way for men to be closer to the divines," Farengar's mood darkened. "But, because the thu'um is a language of the divines, it can accomplish miraculous feats when channeled into the right words of power. Unfortunately, not all who practiced the voice were virtuous enough to use their power responsibly. Perhaps...that is why men allowed it to be forgotten."

"So," Orba nodded. "If I yell 'fus' at someone hard enough, they'll explode?"

Farengar laughed openly. "Well, with ten, maybe twenty years of hard training, just maybe."

"Farengar," an escort interrupted. "We should depart. We need to carry Hege's body back home, it's the least she deserves, and it would be best to return to Riverwood before nightfall."

"I agree," Farengar nodded as he lead Orba away. "We need to get away from this place; you all deserve to rest easy tonight."

The company came to a halt when someone told them to wait. A guard was carrying the keeper's black mace towards them, Orba appreciating the craftsmanship now that she had a closer look. Its grip was padded with a weave of exotic leather-darkened with age yet somehow glistening and fresh. The haft was adorned with spirals of silver and ancient nord carvings from the hilt, all the way to the head. Each of the five flanges was shaped in a similar way to their dragon head statues, the crescent mouths sharpened to a fine edge that glinted silver in the dim light of the ritual chamber.

The whole thing was dripping with cold, a mist weeping constantly from its crystal body. "It's solid ebony-from the pommel, all the way up-and they don't make them like this anymore," The guard said wistfully. "It'd be a shame to let it rot in the dark." He passed it towards Orba, who grunted as she hoist it over her shoulder. "You defeated that fanatic, it should belong to you. I don't think the draugr will miss it any."

"Thanks for the consideration," Orba shrugged. "My sword was ruined anyway."

* * *

As miserable as the trip to Bleak Falls was, the return trip was probably more so. The tomb had no signs of life, so that wasn't an issue, but making their way through the frigid wind and biting snow when they were already exhausted-and carrying a dead body and a big fucking rock-just made all the things she hated about the trial that much worse.

At least it made the return to Riverwood at just past midday all the more welcoming. With a faint scattering of clouds and a warm sun, the weather was fair enough, though the group received plenty of attention from the citizens passing them on the street. Every one of Farengar's group was bloodied and battered, slouched over with fatigue and gasping for fresh air as they brought everything with them. Orba, especially, was spattered with more blood than most people could lose without dying, and that was besides the heat scaling, dents, and warped plates the armor itself sustained.

If the people assumed war was involved, they wouldn't be entirely wrong.

They came across a happy gathering that set her on edge, Farengar bringing them towards an assembly of guards casually taking a break. The loud-mouth from earlier was leading the conversation with something about the trip up to the barrow, though she didn't catch much when they were noticed. "Farengar!" He exclaimed. "Um, you…"

"He's alive?" One of the bystanders asked. "I thought you said he died."

"Died?" Farengar echoed. "I'm not sure what gave you that impression, but we claimed the stone and the Golden Claw, though it cost one of our own."

Everyone was looking at the loudmouth as he stammered. "I suppose I was mistaken when I turned the group back, we _were_ separated, afterall. I'm sure you understand why it would be folly to press forward-"

Orba stepped forward, Jaren awkwardly trying to hold her back. "Wait, wait, did you _seriously_ allege we killed ourselves on that mountain, so your cockless yellow arse could be saved the embarrassment of admitting you shat your breeches and fucked off all the way back here the moment things looked off?"

"What did you say?" The guard returned indignantly.

"I said," Orba said, again putting Jaren off as she stepped in front of Farengar. "You were so bold in calling mutiny on Farengar when you abandoned us, so why weasel out of things now? I thought knights-if anyone-would give a squirt of piss about protecting their charge rather than saving their own hide; and if you're going to roll over on your back with your tail between your legs, you wouldn't be such a bitch about it."

"Enough of that!" He snapped. "Who are you to talk down to me that way? I'm one of Whiterun's proud soldiers, and you're just a common sellsword. You are nothing. Know your place."

The undead stepped forward with her fist raised, when someone grabbed her shoulder. "Orba!" Farengar's voice remained soft, but it was firm. "There's no use fighting, not here."

The undead growled, though she lowered her hand.

"He knows what he did, and so does everyone here." Farengar said as he locked eyes with the bashful warrior, who averted his gaze. "Everything worked out in the end, so a few years regret is enough for me."

Orba sighed, Jaren leading her away and trying to smooth things over with his usual charm. "Alright, let's just go take this claw back where it belongs, hmm? Won't that be fun?"

When they were a little out of earshot, Orba grumbled. "He's lucky I'm tired out already."

"Yes, we all know if you were in good shape you'd bash his face in, bend him over your knee, and spank him like a cranky mom."

Orba snorted at the imagery. "Yeah, and it'd still be less than the prick deserves."

"You just want to fight everyone, don't you?" he smirked. "For the record, I never disagreed."

"Yeah," Orba yawned, her sore body shuddering with fatigue. "I'm going to find somewhere to wash all this filth off me. I'd like to think I'm a resilient sort, but I'm going to be honest; I haven't pushed my body so hard in ages, I need a rest."

"You're not going to accept your reward?" He asked. "The trader isn't far-"

"No." Orba said. "I'll catch up with you later. I'm weary of company."

"Alright," he said quietly. "Don't worry, I'll make sure to split the reward with you. Afterall, you did the heavy lifting."

"Yeah." Orba sighed as she split off from her acquaintance and headed out. Camilla was a good kid, at least from what she'd seen, but if she had to listen to Lucan's whining she was probably going to pop a vein. Either way, she needed a moment of quiet to herself.

She followed the river for a ways, gradually straying from the road as the river went deeper into the woodlands. Watching the gently swaying flowers and exotic plants growing at the feet of the trees and clinging to the edges of the sandy shore made for a peaceful setting as the undead looked for a stretch of river to unwind on. She found a small meadow surrounded by trees a few miles from any civilization, and settled at the edge of the gently flowing river.

As Orba undid the straps and buckles securing her armor, the pouches lashed to her waist jostling as she removed her belt, she realized how much damage her protective plating had sustained in the battle. Everything the draugr struck with the ebony mace-now resting in the tough grass by her warped breastplate-was mangled badly at the point of impact, and her hauberk and leathers were badly scarred by the force of her own power when she embered.

When Orba pulled her charred hide shirt over her head, the chill wind left to blow across her bosom, she inspected her arms. Her body was dreadfully sore since the fight, but she didn't realize the damage was so severe. She ran a tanned hand over terrible burn marring her arm.

The power that overtook her seemed to alter the composition of her flesh entirely; it was greyed and wrinkled, with cracks and splits across multiple hardened sections that resembled petrified wood more than anything else. On applying pressure, some of the fissures oozed blood and prompted a yelp from the undead, who decided not to aggravate it further. And that was just the damage on the surface, she didn't want to consider what the flames of her soul did to the interior.

Orba slid from her boots and trousers and found her ankles swollen and bruised, splotches of heatscars across her toned legs as well. The undead left all her equipment in a neat pile and stepped into the water, her skin tingling at how cool it was on her burns as she took it one step at a time. Her messy yellow hair floated around her eyes and nose in a tangle as she stood in the shallows, Orba rubbing her scalp as she combed through all the blood, dirt, sand, and whatever else was caught in the gold strands. The sore muscles around her head began to relax as she worked on the tight muscles around her ears and scalp, her mind feeling clearer already as she moved to the rest of her form.

Even if it was just herself doing it, she enjoyed the sensual rubdown as she swept away the sheets of burnt, dead skin and filth that'd accumulated on her in the past days. She could enjoy it even more with her heightened sense of touch gained from her humanity, though it made her patchy skin hurt a lot worse as she pulled it away.

The undead woman glided through the river and held onto the shore with one hand while she took her Estus with the other. She finished the last few gulps, and made a mental note to stop by the bonfire on her way back to refill the jade flask. The raw, weeping skin healed gradually as Orba grit her teeth and pulled away the scabby scar tissue, so she could heal properly.

She would recover from this in a few days, but she needed to be more careful in the future. Orba didn't know her soul was even powerful enough to ember, as she'd never done it before, but it was clear doing it for too long or too many times in succession would put her health in great danger.

Orba rolled onto her back and basked in the gentle waters, her ears filled with the currents pushing on her while the sun bathed her in its warmth. She rested on the edge of drifting off for awhile, but couldn't fully settle in as her thoughts crept in on her meditation.

She never had the chance to live as a true human. The solitude, the unbridled hatred for what she was, the desperation to hold onto everything she could find, even if she lost it all in the end. Her apathy to death...her distance from the rest of the world.

The curse of the undead had defined her, it shaped her, it _changed_ her.

But ever since she came here, she could feel herself changing again. She didn't understand what tied her to the Dragon Cult, but she felt it when that thing brought her back from the brink and she felt it when she stood by the Word Wall.

She stood back up, her hair dripping as Farengar's words echoed in her mind. She looked out over the water. It was madness but...was it really that simple? She felt something when she stood by the wall, and she strained to internalize Farengar's teaching when he told her what it meant. The Keeper seemed to shout as naturally as breathing, so could it really be that difficult?

Orba took a breath. "Fus!" Nothing. The undead took another breath, preparing herself again. "FUS!" And again, absolutely nothing. Orba put her hands on her hips. It was pointless to keep reciting the word, since the thu'um was clearly more than that. _Souls_ , she thought. It was the force that made her ember, and the power the lords used to shape her world-and inadvertently destroy it when the First Flame died off. So...if the soul of a lord could shape her world, and the soul of a divine could shape this world…

Orba evened out her breathing, trying to focus inwardly, to the gentle beat of her spirit. _Don't think about yelling_ , she told herself as she allowed her body to completely relax. _Just the meaning of the word, just focus on that_. The undead felt the force of the water pushing against her, slow but constant, and equated that to the wave of energy the Keeper wielded against her. She opened her eyes when her soul was trained on the image of a wave of energy-gentle, but inexorable and steady-and spoke the word from her soul. " _Fus._ "

The smallest ripple of disturbance formed across the surface of the water, pushing back against the tide for a ways, and Orba felt a smile broaden across her face. A feeling of wisdom and accomplishment that was immediately crushed when she saw another ripple, this one from a simple turtle as it snapped up a fish and swam away.

"Fuck," Orba snickered as she shook her head at herself. "My mind really has gone out of sorts."

Still, for the briefest moment-perhaps entirely in her mind-she _did_ feel something stir in her.

She was alerted by a sound in the weeds and turned about in a panic, only to see it was just Camilla holding a basket. Orba sighed, nearly forgetting to slap her hand over her darksign as she turned to the staring woman.

"Forgive me," Camilla blushed. "I...thought you'd be finished by now."

"It's fine," Orba said as she stepped the rest of the way from the river. "I was just finishing up."

Camilla continued to watch her, and Orba was worried she saw her darksign. "Why are you covering your neck like that?"

"Oh," Orba scrambled. "It's...a nasty cyst, very ugly."

"Oh, alright," Camilla said. "Maybe you could see an alchemist for it?"

"I don't think an alchemist can fix what I have," Orba sighed. "Is there any reason you're still putting your eyes all over my bosom?"

Camilla averted her gaze. "Oh my! How rude of me," she exclaimed. "You're just so...big."

"Big?" Orba snorted as she bent over to pick up her clothes. "Alright then." The undead slipped into her shirt and trousers as the imperial kept talking. "Why did you come looking for me? I asked Jaren to take the money."

"I thought you deserved my thanks," Camilla set her basket down and opened it as Orba wrapped her scarf safely around her neck. "Jaren told me what you did in Bleak Falls Barrow, and how brave you were."

"It's nothing," Orba shrugged. "I Just did what I had to."

"You're too modest," she replied. "It means so much to have the Golden Claw back where it belongs. I wish more people would stand up for those like me just trying to make it by. It feels like people have just...given up on everything except the war, and it makes me wonder why I even left Cyrodiil."

"Yeah," Orba nodded as she sat down. "So, what's in the basket?"

Camilla pulled a folded sheet off the top and laid it out, before taking a few stacked bowls and plates and arraying them in a small meal. A glazed bakery sweet, seasoned meat of various kinds and cuts, diced vegetables and a dish of mixed berries, and fresh slices of bread slathered with oozing butter, all set out in front of her. Orba's mouth watered heavily. "Is all this for me?"

"Yes, eat as much as you want!" Camilla nodded. "I had my supper when I was speaking with Jaren. I asked him what gift I should bring you, and he just said you like to eat."

Orba stuffed a slice of bread in her mouth, butter smearing over her lips. She sucked it off, and told Camila, "You didn't have to do this. I'm glad, but I don't want to impose."

"No, it's quite alright!" Camilla replied. "I didn't want you to go without so much as a goodbye."

"Does your brother know?" Orba smirked as she slipped a few berries into her mouth.

Camilla's face twisted with frustration. "I didn't ask him, I know what he'd say," she snapped. "'Camilla, you shouldn't worry about some stranger.' 'Camilla, you shouldn't take extra produce out of storage.' 'Camilla, she's the wrong sort of person and I don't want you alone with them!'"

"Sounds like a fussy hen."

"You have no idea what it's like to live with him," Camilla's dainty hands gripped her dress angrily. "I'm nothing but an annoyance, it's like being married. He just wants me to sweep the floors, move the boxes, and _sometimes_ get produce from the market, but whenever I try to reach out, he just tells me to stop being such a child and focus on my duties."

"Because sweeping a fucking floor is so prestigious."

"Yes! He just...he doesn't understand that I have my own plans," she sighed. "I never wanted to leave home, but things got bad in Cyrodiil. The war with the Thalmor ruined...everything. I hoped I could pick up the merchant's trade, like my brother, and start a family of my own. Have a new beginning, you know?" Orba nodded as she continued. "I feel like I'm...suffocating. He _never_ listens to me, but he never lets me leave either. How can I hope to find a good man if I spend all my time locked away?"

"I'm not sure," Orba shrugged. "Most men I encounter try to cut my head off, so shagging hasn't been much on the mind."

Camilla covered her mouth to snicker. "Well, I can't say I've had that problem."

Orba heard someone pushing through the weeds, and she immediately located her mace nearby, took in it hand, and raised it over her shoulder. A stocky blond made his way into Orba's little hideaway, and the undead lowered her weapon a bit on seeing he was armed only with a lute and wearing a pale brown tunic over a blue undershirt.

"Sven," Camilla greeted with unconvincing enthusiasm. "What a surprise!"

"Indeed," he smiled. "I saw you slinking out of town, and just knew you were looking for a more private setting."

"Yes, I was." Camilla's response was flat as Sven sat down by her. He went to grab a piece of Orba's food, to which the undead slapped his hand away and continued to enjoy her meal. Camilla cleared her throat. "So, what are you doing here?"

"To play you a song, of course!" he beamed. "I thought it was lovely weather for a picnic, with the girl I hold so dear," Sven gazed balefully at Orba. "I didn't realize you were bringing the food to a beggar."

"Sven!" Camilla blushed. "She's not a begger. She's a sellsword; she fought the most powerful draugr in Whiterun to get the Golden Claw back to the Riverwood trader."

"Oh really!" He beamed. "How surprising, maybe I should write a song about it?"

Orba replied with dead silence as she chomped on some hare, Camilla responding for her. "Forgive Orba, she's very...stoic."

"I'm sure," he replied. "Here, let me play for you, Camilla. I find my music sounds all the sweeter in the face of natural beauty such as this." He took Camilla's silence as an affirmative and began to play, Orba doing her best to tune out the others. The music wasn't bad at all, the strums of the harp mingling with the gentle wind and flowing water. I was nice to take a break from her thoughts and just absorb the world around her.

She caught Camilla's eye a few times, the imperial girl keeping her eyes off the bothersome nord. Orba couldn't blame her, and wondered what relation they had that made him so bold to impose.

Sven's playing grew agitated after awhile, on seeing Camilla's ignorance of him. He stopped after a song, and cleared his throat. "Camilla, there's something I needed to show you."

Camilla sighed. "What is it, Sven?"

The blond pulled a parchment from his side. "It's a letter from Faendal. He asked me to deliver it for you, since you were out."

"Really?" Camilla's eye squinted a little. "And he didn't just wait until I came back to the house?"

"It's a nasty letter, he probably didn't want to face you," Sven excused. "Elves just don't have the nerve for confrontation."

"And how do you _know_ this letter is so terrible? Did you decide to rip it open before I could even look?"

"Well…" Sven stammered, when _another_ man pushed his way through the bushes. This one was tall and skinny, and had features slightly different from a human's. His head was even more skinny than Camilla; with shallow cheeks, a pointed chin, and a large forehead. His ears were long, pointy, and stuck out from the sides of his head a little bit, with his ashen hair tied back in a ponytail. Other than that, he wore plain brown trousers and boots, and a brown hunter's vest over a green shirt.

"You too, Faendal?" Camilla let off exasperated an huff as the men glowered at each other.

"Oh, I didn't know you invited _him_ out here with you," Faendal leered.

Camilla's face was turning scarlet as she stood up. "I _didn't_ invite him, or you for that matter. What gives you the right to just...stalk me, when I'm trying to entertain a guest?"

Faendal crossed his arms. "That's a completely unfair accusation to make; you know how trustworthy I am, I visit your home almost every day and I've never given you reason to doubt me."

"How did you know I was out here, then?"

"Yeah!" Sven added, the nord bard standing to Camilla's defense. "I don't know what they teach you in the Aldmeri Dominion, but it isn't polite to enter a lady's affair uninvited!"

"Yet _here you are_ ," Camilla snapped at Sven, Faendal taking her by the arm.

"Come with me," he prompted. "You shouldn't have to contend with this foolish oaf any longer. Let me treat you to a meal worthy of a lady like yourself."

Camilla threw his arm off. "Why am _I_ the one leaving, this is _my_ affair!" She looked at Faendal's side, where a letter was jutting from his vest. "What is that?"

"Oh, this?" Faendal shifted nervously, his eyes darting between Sven and Camilla as he tucked the letter away.

Camilla slapped a hand to her forehead. "I just-you two are _unbelievable!_ I cannot believe either of you would stoop to such...childish antics for my attention."

"Calm down Camilla," Sven cooed. "There's no reason to get hysterical."

" _I'm not being hysterical,_ " Camilla shouted. "I've told you both, again and again, I'm not ready to make a commitment like that lightly. Nothing either of you do will sway my decision. I just...I need some space while I get my life sorted out."

"Camilla," Faendal offered. "I'm willing to give you all the time you need...I'm just concerned you'll wind up with the wrong man. You're intelligent and beautiful, you deserve the best."

Camilla flinched as another figure rose up behind her, Orba's imposing form shielding the imperial with crossed arms and a steely glare. "I think _both of you_ need to leave, now."

Sven tromped up to her. "This is none of your concern-"

Orba caught his wrist and dug her thumb into the base of his carpal so hard it shifted. The undead walked him backwards as she paralyzed him in the hold, his arm tweaked out of shape as she spoke. "You don't get a say in the matter, now fuck off cunt."

She threw him back, Sven taking his lute and stomping away with impotent rage. Orba turned to Faendal, who put his hands up defensively. "There's no need for violence. If Camilla needs time alone, I'll just go."

"You'd better," with the two gone, Orba turned back to Camilla, who was brushing herself off. "Are you alright?"

"I am _so_ sorry you had to contend with that," Camilla sighed. "I don't want my personal affairs to bother you, not when you're trying to unwind after your heroics."

"Camilla, it's fine," Orba comforted. "You aren't the one being a fetid ass. Who were they, anyhow?"

Camilla was weary trying to decide that herself. "They were my friends, or so I thought. Faendal brought me wonderful tales from his hunts across Skyrim, and Valenwood, and he treated me so well. He was a true gentleman who wanted to get away from the influence of the Thalmor, like me. And Sven...he enchanted me with his wonderful voice. He was so passionate about his work, and I gave him my best hopes he'd become a major performer one day. I know they're smitten with me, and...well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't fond of them, as well."

"What in Chaos' name happened?"

"I'm not sure," Camilla mourned. "It started when they both proposed to me-not at once, that would just be indecent-but I told them I wasn't ready for marriage. They were good company and I enjoyed my time with them...but committing my entire life to them? Bearing their children and tending their home? I don't know if they're right for me, not yet. But now," she huffed. "They've turned it into a competition with each other, trying to win my heart like a prize horse. They hate each other now, and everywhere I go they're demanding an answer from me, even though _nothing_ has changed that would make me reconsider."

"Anyone willing to put you through that is selfish, and not worth your time," Orba said. "You deserve someone who makes you happy."

"I'm starting to believe that more and more," Camilla sighed. "But it...it just isn't that simple! It's more than them; their families and friends, the locals, everyone is telling me _I'm_ being selfish by leading them along. I have to choose one or the other, when I'm not sure about either of them, especially of late. They keep encouraging them to claim me, that I'll 'come around' if they just try enough."

"That's horseshit," Orba bayed. "They've got no right to limit your affections to two jackasses who can't get over themselves."

"You seem to be the _only one_ who thinks that," Camilla frowned. "I guess I'm just not valuable enough to get a say in it," her anger flared again. "It all comes back to my-damnable brother! I swear he tries to peddle me as much as he does his wares, so I can be someone else's problem. He lets Faendal in through the front door to make himself at home, so he can leer at me while I'm trying to work or eat. Everytime I argue with him, Lucan tells me I should just get to wifing, so I can spend _all_ my time with them and they'll stop pining after me. I've gotten to where...the very idea of making love makes me sick, because I know whoever I lay with is not the one I truly want. I just...I want my brother to just die, so I can finally break out of this god's damned village and never look back! To Oblivion with my parents, and anyone else who tries to stop me."

Orba nodded, though a little slower this time. "I can't say I understand any of that. It sounds like you're at your limit...but...I don't think you should be so hard on your brother."

"What!?" Camilla shouted. "Hard on him? What about me?"

Orba let out a shaky breath. "I understand the want to be free-to chase your dreams and be respected for it. But, you shouldn't hate the life-the people-you already have."

Camilla seemed split on that. "What do I have that you don't?" She said. "You're strong, and brave, you fight monsters rather than your own family, and you can go anywhere you want. I'm not even a housewife, just hired help for my brother."

"What? You think just because I fight, and kill, that makes me better than you?" Orba growled. "I'm going to spell this out slowly for you: there is _nothing_ to be envied in the life I lead. I don't have a home to come back to each night, or guards to watch over me as I sleep. I don't have any family at all-overly protective or otherwise, and all my friends just end up dying on me in the end. You have no idea what it's like to lie down every night and wonder if you'll see tomorrow. You have _so much_ to be grateful for, so you _have_ the chance to find your calling."

"Oh…you're an orphan," Camilla frowned. "What happened?"

Orba choked up. She didn't know how much she could say and still keep her composure, but...no, she had to do this. "It's not a pleasant tale," she warned, though it didn't lessen Camilla's earnest gaze. "Alright. I came from a cold, sandy place very far from here. My kingdom was deeply impoverished, and devastated by war. A horrible plague broke out; it made the city and countryside a graveyard. There was no cure, and the only solution people found was to purge and imprison the infected, under the eye of the church. I became infected when...I was very young."

"Oh no," Camilla covered her mouth. "You poor thing. What happened?"

"My parents couldn't afford to feed themselves, much less treat a sick child. They threw me away, Camilla. Like rubbish." Orba sobbed sharply, and wiped a stray tear from her eye. "I barely even remember them."

"How did you survive alone, at so young an age?"

"By the kindness of other outcasts like me, and some strangers willing to risk themselves to watch me. Else, I just went it alone until I found new companions," Orba nodded. "I never stayed with any group for too long. We were always separated by death, or plain circumstance. Civilization wouldn't accept any of us, so for the longest time I didn't belong anywhere. I wandered hither and thither, fighting to survive. It was hard...brutally hard. I came... _close_ to death many times, but every time I faced a trial I couldn't overcome, I endured and came back stronger. Everything from those times is a blur, but it ended when I heard of a ship heading to a new land across the sea. I snuck aboard, and then I came here."

Orba sighed, and Camilla took another opportunity to speak. "I can't believe a woman-a person-could endure so much cruelty. It's no wonder you felt no hesitation in fighting the draugr."

"I'd _would_ say I've faced worse," Orba smirked. "But, I saw it through to the end and used everything I had in me. I couldn't imagine doing anything less; it isn't right to sit by and do nothing when so many people stood for me when I hadn't the strength to stand for myself."

"You're so strong."

"Dammit, that's not the point I was trying to make," Orba sighed. "There's no reason you-or anyone else-can't be as strong as I, because I'm nothing special. I'm just an orphan girl who got lucky a few times, that's all."

"You'd say that, after everything you've gone through?" Camilla shook her head. "What will it take for you to accept a compliment?"

"I do appreciate it," Orba said. "But...I don't know, lately everyone seems to look at me like I'm some sort of hero."

"Maybe it's because you are?"

"And maybe the Lord of Sunlight will be shat out my arse and he'll make his grand second coming with a procession of moonlight butterflies."

Camilla abruptly put a hand to her mouth to try and stop the laughter, but she couldn't help herself and burst into uncontrollable giggling. Orba couldn't contain herself, with how squeaky her laugh was, and found her mood breaking into a laughing fit as well, at her own bad joke. She laughed and laughed, until she began to weep. Orba covered her face as she was wracked with sobbing, all her repressed emotions gushing out of her. After they both settled down, Orba wiped her soaking cheeks with the back of her hand. "I really am a hopeless mess."

"Well," Camilla offered. "You have good reason. My concerns must feel very mundane to you."

"Everyone has their own life to lead," Orba said. "It isn't a competition. At least, it isn't one worth winning."

"I…" Camilla stammered. "Do you have any plans?"

"Plans?"

"Yes, after you return to Whiterun," she clarified. "You _did_ conclude your business here, right?"

"I suppose," Orba shrugged. "I honestly didn't think that far ahead. I shouldn't have trouble finding more work, since my reputation precedes me apparently."

"Well," Camilla said, clearly trying to bolster her courage. "Can I ask a favor of you?"

"Depends on the favor," Orba shrugged. "I won't make promises I can't keep."

"Well," Camilla offered. "I'm not brave enough to strike it out on my own, not with Lucan and the rest breathing down my neck. But I'm tired of everyone telling me what I should do for them, instead of asking me what I want to do for myself. So when you get to Whiterun, could you just...find work for me?"

"How do you mean?"

"If I'm ever going to escape Riverwood, I need someone to help me get established. I've never run a business by myself before," Camilla mumbled. "If you could find someone who needs my help, or just wants a partner to lessen the load, it would help me so much."

"Alright, so job hunting?" Orba concluded. "I'm not sure how well I could persuade someone to take an apprentice, but I suppose I'll try."

"Do you suppose," Camilla demanded. "Or are you going to?"

Orba hesitated. This was so sudden, what if she let her down? Hesitantly, she answered. "Yes. You have my word I will find you work, if there's any to be had."

"Alright," Camilla sighed. "I'm counting on you. You're...we don't know each other very well, but I feel like you're the only one who's willing to listen to me. It feels silly to ask another woman to shoulder my woes, but I'm not sure who else to turn to."

"There's _no_ shame in asking for help if you feel like your life is out of control," Orba said. "Being good to each other...it's the least we humans should do."


End file.
